


Beauty and the Bear Trap

by Elpie (Horribibble), MessengerGabriel, Wearydress



Series: The Merry Wives of Witchers [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Branding, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, Dubcon to Full Con, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Polyamory, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24707089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MessengerGabriel/pseuds/MessengerGabriel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wearydress/pseuds/Wearydress
Summary: They say there are wolves upon the mountain.Vicious, man-eating wolves that charmed women from their beds, long ages ago. Which sounds both batshit insane and like surprisingly good material for a proper bawdy tavern chorus.Naturally, hehadto go take a look.-Jaskier goesupthe Kaedwen Mountains looking for song material.He does not come back down. His husbands prefer it that way.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert/Vesemir, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vesemir, Jaskier | Dandelion/Vesemir
Series: The Merry Wives of Witchers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786249
Comments: 1218
Kudos: 2083
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. The Mountain

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 
  * Inspired by [Share And Share Alike](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651296) by Anonymous. 



> We spend a lot of our free time (and some of our work and school time, thanks Zoom) screaming about our favorite stories and ideas they give us. 
> 
> This particular story was inspired by Three Things: 
> 
> \- The Accidental Warlord and His Pack by inexplifics.  
> (We're sorry, and also thank you.)
> 
> \- Share and Share Alike by Anonymous  
> (I feel like this will be less shocking for you. We're still offering a preemptive apology, because we decided to write Porn by Committee and everything got weird after that.)
> 
> \- My constant, screaming need to inject shitty humor into basic narratives. Welcome to hell. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> x
> 
> I regret nothing. Please enjoy reading as much as we enjoyed writing.
> 
> \- Messenger
> 
> x
> 
> This fic has consumed my life and my soul, and has made me aware I cannot write in present tense. 
> 
> \- Weary
> 
> x
> 
> I commend my shame to any god that can find it. 
> 
> \- Flit
> 
> (At the time of posting, Flit was unavailable to change co-author settings.)
> 
> x
> 
> There's a relationship tag for Jaskier and Baby Yoda. We found that out today.
> 
> If you wanted to do something cool for us--maybe take a video or audio recording of yourself reading this for the first time. Unedited. Please.

They say there are wolves upon the mountain. 

Vicious, man-eating wolves that charmed women from their beds, long ages ago. Which sounds both batshit insane and like surprisingly good material for a proper bawdy tavern chorus. 

A logical person would have paid more attention. Listened to them, if only with a grain of salt. In all tales the seed of truth, and all that. 

But ‘they’ were a bunch of superstitious fishwives with a dubious amount of teeth between them, who also told him masturbating would grow hair on his palms. 

Naturally, he _had_ to go take a look. 

So here he is. On the mountain. 

Palms smooth, leg in a bear trap.

Which hurts.

Anything digging into your flesh and crushing your bones will. 

He had the strangest urge to write about the snow falling on his face.

The wind in the trees. 

The sound of boots crunching in the snow.

He’s heard shock is a hell of a drug, but only now believes it. 

“ _In winter_

_all the singing is in...is in..._

_the tops of the trees_

_where the wind-bird_ …?”

He even manages to put it to a tune, numb fingers fumbling for the mechanism of the trap. Surely if a hunter can open these, _he_ can. 

Bears can’t. It makes sense. That bears can’t. 

But neither can he. His hands are slippery.

And then there are broad hands covering his own, lined silver with scars, and that’s pretty, too. In a definitely dying of shock and blood loss kind of way.

The man—it’s either a man or a strange, silver-haired yeti—bares his teeth, which are both pointed and unnervingly long for _not_ being a yeti. Blunt fingers run from Jaskier’s snared shin to the teeth of the trap and _pull._

He should probably tell him that this is a trap for bears, and therefore not the sort of thing one gently pops apart. Except the trap comes loose easy as you please, and Jaskier thinks—

_Well, at least he’s got all his teeth_

And then passes out. 

-

Geralt feels reasonably certain that the pretty waif with the lute on his back is not a hunter or a particularly foolhardy knight. 

If he is, he’s _bad_ at it. 

Either way, Geralt has enough pesky stirrings of conscience to gather the poor sod in his arms and begin the trek back up to the keep. 

-

Jaskier is aware that he _should_ be in a great deal more pain than he _is,_ but the hazy warm sensation on the inside of his head suggests either good drugs or copious amounts of alcohol. 

Or both.

There’s an older man standing over him, grizzled, with a red tinge to his nose that could be from years of drinking or being struck repeatedly in the face. 

Jaskier is usually very good at reading people, but he’s also possibly still in shock. But he’s in shock atop a very nice pile of cushions and furs. 

He’s naked, so it’s extra nice. 

_Wait._

-

He’s quiet as his rescuer tilts his injured leg carefully between calloused palms, humming to himself. It’s best to ask questions when a mysterious, cat-eyed mountain man is not holding one’s delicate limbs in a grip that mangles bear traps. 

A blunt thumb presses into the skin, not hard enough to hurt. “Relax. The salve will help.”

The salve _does_ help. There’s an immediate numbing situation where he dabs it on the open wound. It’s a miracle his _bones_ aren’t splinters, but he isn’t going to question it. 

Jaskier’s vision is understandably blurred, but he can tell that there are others here with them, flickering in dim orange firelight. 

Mostly because one of them sounds an awful lot like _he_ was the one stuck in a bear trap. 

“Couldn’t bring back a fuckin’ deer, could ya?”

_“Lambert.”_

“Well, we can’t _eat_ a _dandy._ ”

“But you could have use for a _wife_.” This one sounds older, wiser. Or at least more accustomed to this. 

Whatever ‘this’ is. He’ll figure it out soon enough. 

For now, the hands on his leg are surprisingly gentle, soothing over the skin. “It’s best if you sleep through this next part.” A cup is pressed to his lips, a hand cradles his jaw. 

So he drinks what he’s given, and he goes to sleep. 

-

It becomes stunningly apparent, once he’s conscious again, that the ‘wife’ in question is _him._

_-_

“All I’m saying,” Jaskier slurs, a short while later, still muzzy-headed with a faint taste of mint in the back of his throat, “All I’m saying is that that isn’t the sort of thing you say to a man and then _grunt_ instead of explaining. _Fuck_ my leg hurts.”

“Could be ‘cause he’s _pulling on it._ ” One Scar, Right Eye snarls. 

Not a Yeti sighs.

“Or the bear trap.” Whole Bunch of Scars, Ouch chuckles. 

“There hasn’t been a wife in _decades_.”

“Seven.” Older, Hand On Leg actually seems _upset._ “It’s been seventy years since the raid.”

Jaskier feels briefly, horrifically guilty because that sounds like the sort of tragic backstory he would sing something very _sad_ about, but also the man’s _thumb_ is rubbing against very naked skin. 

“You all seem like perfectly lovely people, but I would _really_ like my pants back…” He tries very valiantly to stand, just before a heavy hand rests atop his head and pushes him neatly back down. Right. Staying put, then. 

This seems to please Definitely Not a Yeti.

“Perfect time to get one. You’ve been practicing in the brothels, haven’t you? You spend enough coin there.”

“At least I’m not _precious_ about it—” 

“Eskel. Lambert. Enough. Geralt has brought us a _gift_.”

Jaskier has been called many things, but rarely a ‘gift.’ A foppish nitwit, yes. An affront to peace and quiet, in a well-published letter to the editor. An asshole... _often,_ and on several occasions by Mother Nenneke herself. 

“He’s not a gift. He’s a _bard._ ” 

And yet, that stings.

“They’re supposed to get a _choice_ ,” Geralt growls.

“Nobody is supposed to come up the mountain alone. And we all know that nobody gets to _leave_ . Not unless they’re one of _us._ ” 

Three sets of eyes stare at Jaskier in judgment. 

“In my defense, there’s a very glaring lack of no trespassing signs coming up that mountain. Or ‘Halt—big fucking bear traps ahoy,’ for that matter. _Thanks_.” Jaskier snips.

“That’s what the old ladies are for, to ward people off. We give them good coin for it.” Eskel actually sounds as if he’s trying to be genuinely helpful.

“People tend not to listen to women cackling about rosey palms and horny wolves. They don’t _sound_ credible and—wait. Wolves. You’re _Witchers.”_

“The eyes didn’t give that away?” Eskel seems perilously close to laughing. 

“It’s been a long day. I’ve lost a _lot_ of blood.” He takes a deep breath. “I thought _he_ was a yeti.”

The look of absolute exasperation on Geralt’s face was worth something at least.

“Do I pay you? I don’t have much, but you were kind enough to not let me die like an idiot. I’ll certainly sing your praises, after this.”

“I’ve a feeling you do a lot of things like an idiot.” Lambert huffs.

No wonder these men aren’t married.

“ _Enough.”_ The eldest, his hand creeping further up Jaskier’s thigh, snaps. Even Jaskier is cowed, which is impressive, really. “You’re making a shit impression.”

“I’ve had worse. Honestly. There are several noblemen out there who’d gladly pay you if you _left_ me out there.”

The older man sighs. “What’s your name, bard?”

“Jaskier.” 

“Really?”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“Fine. I’m Vesemir, of the Wolf School. These are my students. You’re sheltered in Kaer Morhen.”

“Fantastic. You have a lovely home.”

“Vesemir,” Geralt says, softly. “He won’t tell.”

“You have too much faith in you yet, pup. Sometimes they don’t mean to.”

Jaskier bites his lip, and Vesemir’s gaze falls squarely on him, intent. He is seen and seen through.

“You have a choice to make.” That broad hand squeezes his thigh. It’s almost like being back in Professor Shakeslock’s office, except...well, no. Both situations, no pants. “And it’s a choice we don’t offer everyone. We’re in a precarious position here—”

There’s a soft yearning in those yellow eyes. An ache. 

There’s nothing temporary here, no _leaving_ if he says yes. No forgetting or being forgotten. 

He parts his lips.

“ _Pay attention._ Last time someone made it _back down_ the mountain, _I_ survived. My pups did not. My wives did not. These three are all that’s left, because they were on the Path when we were betrayed. Doesn’t matter how pretty a promise you make, you sing your sweet songs about us and _we die._ ”

He looks over to the three in question. 

_On the Path._

They weren’t _here_ when it happened. 

What must it be like, to trek up that mountain, expecting friends and loved ones, and find a mass grave? How did one show _kindness_ after that?

Vesemir taps his skin, draws his attention back, and he ducks his head. 

“So you have two options: you can stay here, warm and loved and well-fucked,” That broad, calloused hand rests just at the front of his smalls, and it’s _more._ “Or you can try your luck back down the mountain on one leg.” 

“That sounds a lot like suicide.” Jaskier rasps, feeling his heart kick up in his chest, and watches as the slit of the man’s pupil blows out the gold of his eyes. 

“It’s the same risk we take, letting you go. What say you?”

Geralt is the first to join them in the nest of furs and blankets, kneeling down at just behind him, leaning over his shoulder. He’s quiet—Jaskier gets the impression that he’s _always_ quiet, but he looks hopeful now. 

His presence is like a steadying wall at the bard’s back. 

The others hesitate. He can’t blame them. 

This is _insane_. 

Stay here, and ‘marry’...three men? Four? 

Or risk stumbling, bleeding back down the mountain. Back to the road, if there were a miracle. Remembering gentle fingers prying him free, soothing him, trusting him in a place _ruined_ by it. 

“I’m sorry about your family.”

Everyone in the room pauses, a host of matching amber-yellow eyes pinned on Jaskier.

“He’s not lying.” Lambert says, suddenly a great deal closer, head tilted inquisitively. Eskel hums, crouching down at the edge of the furs. 

_Curious._

Eskel’s gaze is intent. No one has ever looked at him quite like this, and now _everyone_ is. “You could _be_ our family. Our wife. Witchers are _very_ good to their wives.” 

It’s tempting. Incredibly tempting. The rush it sends through him is not unlike performing at a festival, surrounded by people who’ve come just to see him, to bask in his energy for as long as it lasts. 

He reaches up to Lambert, watching as the man steps closer and hesitates again. And then his cheek is cradled in Jaskier’s palm.  
  
He’ll never go down the mountain again, if these men are to be believed. 

...But would that be so bad?

His father was right. He’s an idiot with no survival instincts. _Ulrich_ would have taken his chance back down the mountainside. But then, Ulrich had a face _like_ a mountainside. Jaskier has always been _pretty._

“I...hate to burst anyone’s bubble, here. But have any of you noticed that I’m not a woman? How can I be your wife?”

Lambert is kneeling, now, sliding to the stones and creeping closer. One hand keeps Jaskier’s pressed to his cheek. Yellow eyes rake over his naked form. “Doesn’t matter. Still ours.”

“It’s a traditional title. Whoever you are—” Eskel teases from his opposite side, lifting his free hand to brush rough lips over his knuckles. “We can still spoil you.”

“Fine silks and jewels.” Lambert urges, his hand sliding up Jaskier’s calf. 

“Resin for your lute strings. Oils and balms for your skin.” Eskel traces an old nick on his knee.

“And love.” Geralt rumbles from just behind, teeth nipping at his shoulder. Warm palms cupping Jaskier’s upper arms. 

“You’ll never want for anything, here.” The elder’s hand _finally_ lands exactly where he wants it, lips scant inches from his own. 

No one has ever asked him to _stay_ before. 

“Right.” Jaskier breathes. “Where do I sign?” 

-

There’s a lot to be said for polygamy, Jaskier is surprised to find. 

His parents called him _needy_ , before. Begging for scraps of attention or approval. Here, he doesn’t need to ask. 

Vesemir is gentle as he hooks Jaskier’s injured leg over his hip, taking care to soothe him as the wound aches. He’s surrounded, Eskel to his left, Lambert to his right, and Geralt at his head, propping him up to tilt a vial of something vaguely sweet down his throat. 

He feels warm, impossibly warm as Geralt brushes a kiss to the corner of his lips, licking up the remnants. It’s difficult _not_ to be distracted as the corners of his rescuer’s lips turn up, eyes bright in the dim. “Good?” He asks. 

Jaskier hums. “Again.”

Geralt is quick to oblige, lips warm and lightly chapped, likely from the cold. Jaskier has balms for that. He thinks he’ll enjoy pampering the man, pampering all of them. 

There’s a pinching sensation at his chest, and he frowns down at Lambert, who grins impishly. He seems entirely content to toy with the human’s nipples, watching the breath stutter in his chest as pleasure builds. 

As Vesemir does away with his smalls and takes a proper hold of his cock, flushed and hard, and begins to map it with rough touches and strokes. 

As Eskel explores the ticklish flesh of his free arm before teething at the thin skin of his neck and throat. 

Even as he feels a strange dampness between his legs. 

(In retrospect, he really _should_ get into the habit of asking _questions._ )

But the thought seems slightly less important with Vesemir’s finger pressing past his rim, thumb rubbing at his perineum as more slick gathers. He takes his time, humming as a pleased lector might as Jaskier begins to squirm and whine. 

“Relax.” He says, as if this has ever been helpful, historically. But Jaskier tries. He bites his lip until Geralt _whines_ , trailing kisses from his shoulder up to his temple. 

“Be good. Vesemir will help.”

“That’s a very nice sentiment. Still feels weird.”

Eskel, bless him, tears himself away from a growing collage of bruises and bite marks, surveying his work momentarily before smiling a _wicked_ smile. “You’re a virgin?” 

“Overall or—” He yelps when Vesemir adds another finger and _crooks_ them, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Are you trying to shut me up?”

“ _Is it working?_ ” Vesemir snorts. “You’re filling air because you’re nervous. You’ve no need to be. Geralt will take you first—he found you.”

Jaskier thinks but does not say, _Oh, congratulations._

Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier feels it echo through him.

“Come here, Geralt. He’s almost ready. Watch.”

Lambert snickers. “As if he’s forgotten.” 

“You’ll like this, Jaskier.” Eskel leans up to kiss his jaw. “Geralt’s gifted.”

Jaskier should have a comeback for that—something witty, but it’s swallowed up by hungry eyes gazing up at him. Geralt holds him there for a moment before Vesemir calls his attention back again. 

“Here.” Vesemir rumbles, fingers shifting in a way that makes Jaskier roll his hips. “Like this.” 

He’s _wet_ , now, opening up eagerly under the older man’s attentions. 

And then a new digit is pressed in faster, rougher, like they’re being _timed._ Geralt is almost _reckless_ in his eagerness, and Jaskier curses, trying to move his hips into it and gasping softly as the angle changes. 

He’s never _done_ this before—he’s tried it, once or twice, but the angle was clumsy and he ended up, for the most part, just feeling tired. 

He isn’t tired _now._

He whines, rocking against the fingers scraping at his inner muscles. The noises he makes seem to spur the silver-haired Witcher on, intent on _more._

His brow twitches with need at every soft gasp, eyes burning across planes of sweat-sheened skin. Sharp teeth dig into his bottom lip, and Jaskier can see the tension in his neck as he seems to hold something back.

Geralt’s breath comes heavy, his chest rising and falling, light flickering over his skin. 

The air is thick with need, and Jaskier can nearly _taste_ it. 

The cloying mix of musk and slick and— _gods_ —they’re going fast. His body is _singing_ and there’s wet heat surrounding his nipple, a strong hand on belly, keeping him still and full and _good_ as Geralt and Vesemir’s fingers stir the slick inside him, and— 

“F-fuck!” 

Something happens—Geralt adds another finger, and the stretch is too much, too soon. There’s a stinging, burning at his rim. 

The noise Vesemir makes is not unlike the noise Jaskier _feels._ “Slower! He’s new to this, and he’s not _Lambert_.”

“Oy!” Lambert grumbles, but the sound is muffled with Jaskier’s nipple in his mouth. 

Eskel reaches over to smack his ass, and Jaskier yelps as teeth clamp down too hard. “Do you _mind?_ ”

Geralt shushes him, free hand coming up to rub gently over Jaskier’s hip, up to his belly. “Easy. Didn’t mean it.”

Lambert drops a soft kiss just under the bite before sucking the abused flesh back into his mouth. 

_Oh, that’s nice._

Jaskier settles again, enjoying the sensation of a warm mouth on his heated flesh. Making marks. _Claiming_ him. He reaches up to run his fingers through Lambert’s hair and _feels_ him whine into his skin, teething at him for his trouble. 

It’s cute really, if a little rough.

“That’s good.” Vesemir says. “He likes that.” 

He really, really does. The fact that there are now four fingers inside him, alternating, brushing up against that very sensitive bundle of nerves, does not hurt. 

“So sweet.” Eskel nearly _purrs_. “Do you hear yourself? I can’t wait to eat you out.”

Jaskier would probably do something stupid, like try to ask questions, but his legs are being hitched up again, gently—proper gently—and the slick makes it all too easy for Geralt to slip inside. 

Eskel wasn’t joking about him being ‘gifted’—Geralt isn’t small by any stretch of the imagination. He’s careful as he pushes inside, the slick making obscene noises that have Jaskier’s prick _twitching_ and his head falling back. 

His mouth falls open, panting and whining as Geralt just keeps going and _going_ . He can’t even form words, too focused on the sensation of fullness. How _much_ it is.

He can’t help but move, just a little, twitching away before pushing himself determinedly _back_.

“Shit, he’s fucking himself already.”

“Such a good wife. Taking Geralt so well.” Vesemir _coos_ at him, leaning down to press a kiss to Jaskier’s belly, right above where Geralt is currently splitting him apart. 

“ _Fuck_ .” Jaskier wheezes as the Witcher fully seats himself, finally remembering how to fucking _breathe_ . He can’t believe that he _took_ all of that. 

“ _Right?”_ Lambert growls, and bites down _hard_ on his pectoral before drawing back to kiss the abused flesh.

“Is this— _Melitele’s tits—_ is this what you people _do_ up here?” 

He can’t help the growing flush at the wet sounds of their joining. 

“Whenever we can.” Eskel answers. “You’ll like it here in Kaer Morhen. We can tell how much you love this.” 

Jaskier watches, rapt, as Eskel leans up to pull Geralt into a kiss. The silver-haired Witcher _twitches_ inside him, and he can’t help but bear down. Geralt _whines_ , and Eskel breaks away, resting soothing fingers on his brother’s throat. “How is it, then?”

“ _Fuck_ , he’s so warm.” Geralt rasps, hips jerking, the flesh on flesh contact sharp enough to snap in the quiet. 

Jaskier grunts, trying to move, to make it just a bit easier on himself, but his wound twinges and he whimpers. “Ffff—easy.” 

Geralt stops, and Jaskier watches, pain fizzing at the edges, as Vesemir’s scarred fingers fold about his student’s hips, physically pushing them into a rotation that risks melting Jaskier entirely. He wants to tighten his hold but he can’t, legs held aloft for his own protection as he’s _wrecked_ for the first time.

It’s so much more than he’s used to—than he’s ever had. He wants _more_ of it.

“Roll your hips, pup. Don’t just hammer away. Be gentle with the little flower.” 

There’s more pressure as Vesemir leans up against the line of Geralt’s back, bearing both of them forward as he forces Geralt deeper inside the bard before drawing him back. 

“Find his prostate—you _know_ this. Have you gotten lazy, fucking your brothers? Is Lambert so easily satisfied?”

Eskel snorts. “Fucking _no_.” 

Vesemir chuckles, and Jaskier watches him smile against Geralt’s throat. “Have I not fucked you enough for you to remember the right way to do it?”

“Please, Geralt?” Jaskier lilts. “I’ll be good.”

Four sets of eyes blink down at him. 

“ _Fuck._ ” Geralt rolls against him again, lowering himself further to take his lips. “Little demon.”

“Proper succubus.” Lambert groans. 

Eskel corrects, “Incubus.”

“ _Precious bloody flower._ ” Vesemir growls. “Treat him like it, or I’ll do it _for_ you.”

“ _Please_ , Daddy.” His smile is wicked for a flash of a second before breaking into a sweet moan. 

“Oh, fuck.” Vesemir grunts, melting just a bit. “Knew you’d settle into this, pet.”

They continue rocking together, Vesemir’s grip slipping on Geralt’s hips as a sheen of sweat washes him. It’s hot and slick and _completely maddening_ . Jaskier does his best to move his hips to meet them, but his leg is sore and they’re so _heavy_ and so _much._

“Please, Ger?” He wheedles. “More?”

“You’ll hurt yourself.” Geralt huffs, lips pressing his forehead, then just over his eye. “Said you’d be good.”

“I am.” He gasps, more than a bit desperate. “So good. The best. _I need it._ ”

“Right.” Geralt nods. 

Vesemir doesn’t need to be told. Gingerly, he lets go of Geralt and moves aside, allowing the younger man to lean up and back, dragging Jaskier’s lower half up over his thighs. He has more control like this—freedom of movement. A more pronounced rolling motion to torment his pretty new wife. 

“Good boy.” Jaskier _sighs,_ delighted at the change, and runs curious fingers up Geralt’s stomach. 

Again, Eskel sings, “ _Incubus~_ ” under his breath. 

Vesemir swats him. “Switch. Hand on his dick.”

“Yes, Sir.” Eskel dips his head and goes to do as told. It’s not a particularly trying ordeal, rubbing his thumb over the head of Jaskier’s blood-hot cock. “You’re even pretty here. What the hell?”

“You’re willing to take that lying down, bard?” Lambert snorts. 

“He’s a flower.” Eskel glares at his brother, but his attentions don’t stop, firm and coaxing. It’s bizarre, to be caught between two dangerous men arguing over whether or not his dick is pretty. 

But it _feels_ amazing. 

“Aren’t buttercups _weeds_?”

“Shut. The fuck up. And make me _come_.” Jaskier hisses.

Vesemir _laughs,_ leaning in to smooth back his damp bangs and kiss him properly. “Taking you in was a good decision. You’ll be a good responsibility for the pups, wife.”

“That’s not my _name._ ”

“ _Oh_ . He has _thorns,_ this flower.” Vesemir’s teeth nip his ear, breath rattling along sensitive skin. 

“Damn right.”

“ _Our_ flower, now. Will you keep blooming for us?”

“Only if you can keep up.”

Another laugh, a bit louder, less controlled. He drinks it in like applause. Like spinning across the floor, fingers flying on the strings. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you well-satisfied. You’ll love our attention—” His voice gentles, “And we shall earn your love.”

“ _Promise_ , Daddy?”

“...You’re going to kill us all.”

“‘M gonna fucking come.” Geralt grunts, thrusts shorter, grinding harshly, and Jaskier—Jaskier feels a _different_ pressure in his belly. He thought he felt stretched out before, but it feels...intense. The pressure tugs at his rim, now. 

“What?” Jaskier keens softly, twisting toward Vesemir for some sort of guidance. 

“Easy, love. Easy.” 

“You’re gonna love this part.” Eskel’s voice is hushed, his eyes almost feverishly bright. Like this is what he’s been waiting for. 

“Excuse me, but what the fuck?” Jaskier starts to wiggle, the pressure only ever increasing as Geralt grunts and holds onto his hips. His breath stutters as Vesemir and Lambert lean on his arms, keeping him still. 

Lambert’s hand rests on his chest, thumb rubbing gently at the skin. “Mind his leg.”

“I’ve got him.” Eskel nods. 

Vesemir is in his face again, pressing gentle kisses to whatever flesh he can reach. “Bear with it, flower.” 

On one hand, it’s a soothing sentiment. On the other— _no one_ has explained the sudden feeling of something _thick_ being pushed _inside him._

Jaskier _very much_ needs to get in the habit of asking more questions. 

His spine _curls_ , his mouth dropping open as pleasure swells in his ass and belly, new and confoundingly _glorious._

Vesemir’s hand joins Geralt’s on the increasingly taut skin of his stomach, massaging against the intrusive sensation. “Ease him into it. It’s his first time taking a knot.”

“A fucking _wha-aahh ha…shit!_ ” Jaskier’s fingers g rasp onto whatever they can—an arm, someone’s shirt —as Geralt’s _knot_ finally catches inside. It’s _everything_ and _everywhere_ , and he’s so _fucking_ overwhelmed at the relentless press against his walls and that sensitive cluster of nerves that he _would_ try to crawl away, but he _can’t_.

 _Because fucking_ knots _._

“There you go, buttercup. Just let go, we have you.” A tender hand wipes at tears he hadn’t been conscious of shedding. 

It _burns,_ like being seared from the inside out, and he’s trying—he’s _really trying_ to breathe through it, but the slightest motion seems to jostle Geralt inside him. It’s too much. 

“See? I told you.” Eskel’s smile is smug, but his palm scrapes over the sensitive head of Jaskier’s dick, and for this he can be forgiven, because— 

Well, he won’t remember to be angry.

His hips stutter, his breath catching, keeping precious air from his lungs as it builds and builds and— 

“ **_Fuck!_ ** ” He cries again, broken sobs wracking him as orgasm crashes through him, rushing about his lungs and leaving him shivering. It’s a very good thing that the others are holding him down, because for a moment it feels as if his _soul_ is leaving his body. 

He whines, helpless and writhing, trying to tighten his legs about Geralt’s waist only to be stopped by the gentle bar of Vesemir’s grip. 

He doesn’t realize that he’s begging, his cock kicking against his belly as he makes an absolute _mess_ of himself and Eskel’s hand.

Above him, Geralt’s breath hitches on a groan, and his insides are flooded with sticky warmth. Jaskier bites his lip _hard_ , letting his head fall back onto something soft as he waits out the rush. 

Only it doesn’t _stop._

Geralt’s hips continue that short, desperate roll that drives him into Jaskier’s tender insides, spilling into him more and more and…

Jaskier shivers again, turning his head to look up at Lambert. “...What…?”

“That’s what the knot’s for. Keeps you full and stopped up tight. And he can stay like this for _hours._ ” Lambert grins. 

_Hours_?

“He won’t.” Vesemir corrects sharply. “Eskel’s next.”

Lambert huffs, as if he finds this _deeply offensive._

“More flies with honey than vinegar.” Eskel hums, _still_ toying with the bard’s spent cock, spreading sticky cum _everywhere._

“What the hell does that even _mean?_ ” 

But Jaskier can’t hear them, can’t engage. He’s going to _pop_ , and they’re arguing over who’s doing this _next_?

“Stop. I _can’t_.” He pleads, only to be met with more of Vesemir’s shushing and suddenly his _hand_ is pressing down on Jaskier’s gut, drawing a series of quick, violent curses from Geralt’s mouth. The increased pressure is going to _kill him_ and then— 

Geralt collapses, the bulk of him dropping down on Jaskier, both of them panting for air. 

He looks up at Geralt, blurry through the tears, but can’t think of a single thing to say as strong arms pull him closer. He struggles again, the motion grinding Geralt’s knot deeper still, but the man’s grip is vice tight. 

“You’ll get used to this.” Eskel purrs, dirty fingers brushing their new lover’s parted lips before pressing inside, feeding him his own spend. “You’ll _crave_ it.”

“Beg for it, even.” Lambert adds, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth before grasping Geralt’s chin and tugging him into a far filthier embrace. 

Another helpless rut of Geralt’s hips, and Jaskier’s tears escape again, accompanied by shrill, hysterical laughter. He’s muffled by the fingers in his mouth, the taste of salt. 

He’s getting hard again. 

-

Jaskier is half-conscious, limp and sticky and on _fire_ when rough fingers probe his sore entrance again. He’s been knotted _four times._ His belly is so swollen he can feel himself _slosh_ as he whines and tries to pull away. Firm hands hold him still. 

“N’more. Please, Daddy?” 

“Shhhh.” Vesemir answers. “You’ve done well. You can rest after this.”

Lambert _rumbles._ “ _Fuck_ , look how messy he is. Leaking like that.”

“Not for long.” Eskel hums. There are lips on his skin, and soon a hard, unyielding mass is pressed inside him. 

Keeping him full.

He shifts once more and nearly _screams_ when he feels it press against his prostate. 

It isn’t long at all before he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the credit roll is as follows: 
> 
> Elpie: Lead Writer, Tone Police. [on tumblr](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/)  
> Weary: Writer, Researcher, Monitors When it is Acceptable to Make a Moose Joke.  
> Ducky: World-Building Detail Gremlin, Wrangled the Lore into Being. Focused on Editing.  
> Flit: Editor. Professional Adult.  
> Fruit: Editor. Keeps MF Sending Me "Flat F#ck Friday" Every Week.  
> Mal: Editor. Knows How the Dialog Tag Comma Thingy Works While Elpie Definitely Does Not.  
> Rellah: Editor. Literally Signed Up for This.


	2. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow morning, Julian Alfred Pankratz will wake up with three to four husbands and a _wolf_ on his ass. 
> 
> -
> 
> In which several conversations are had, some of which _really should have come first._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! 
> 
> I wanted to add a little information here. We've had some new (wonderful) faces join the Discord, which is excellent. But we've noticed that a lot of people are giving me sole credit for this. I wouldn't be writing by myself--I've been having a lot of issues with block lately, and this is genuinely a collaborative effort. (A filthy one, but still a collaborative effort. We know our brand.) Just remember to blow kisses at everybody, not just me. ;)
> 
> I also wanted to add a note--we know this is porn, and we want to continue producing the quality shameless nonsense you expect. But there's plot coming, and I've had genuine conversations about being reluctant to "topload the smut." 
> 
> So while we _will_ have lots and lots of quality E-rated content, _the plot is coming._ Please do not be alarmed. Or yell at me. I'll spit at you, like a llama. I have no dignity left. 
> 
> Also, ACTUAL WARNING, dudes!
> 
> The branding scene comes up very early in this chapter. It is not consensual. It is bad behavior, and Jaskier is not happy about it. But this is ultimately a stupid indulgent pornfluff piece. Stick with us.
> 
> \- Elpie

What could be hours or days later, Jaskier stares up at the high stone ceiling, crossed with beams, no doubt standing for centuries before and prepared to stand further. He breathes deep lungfuls of sweat, sex, and minty herbs.

He can’t move—he’s boxed into a warm nest by his  _ husbands _ , and he doubts he could do anything but ooze vaguely into someone’s arms at the moment. 

If he weren’t plugged up, he’d be leaking all over the place. 

“You know, I can’t tell if I’m already dead, or if you’re all trying to kill me.”

“Wouldn’t do that.” Lambert grins from somewhere near his hip. “You’re our wife.”

“So.” Jaskier smiles. “Probably already dead.”

“Hold that feeling,” Vesemir calls from nearer to the fire. “You’re going to need it.”

Jaskier can feel Geralt  _ whine  _ where the man’s chest pillows his head. “It’s fast.”

But Geralt is already tugging at him, turning him over in the cage of his arms, eyes apologetic but unwavering. Eskel presses a kiss to his shoulder before pressing down at his hips, keeping his back still. Lambert...hesitates. 

A rough palm slides across Jaskier’s ass, down his hip, and then laces thick fingers with his own. “Squeeze as hard as it hurts.” 

_ Oh fuck you, no.  _

His other hand holds Jaskier’s wounded leg still. 

It feels like something horrible is thrashing inside his chest, struggling to escape up and out through his throat.  _ Panic,  _ he thinks. Panic is understandable. 

There’s a hissing sound from the fireplace, the sound of Vesemir’s shifting footsteps. 

“ _ Why won’t you just tell me what it is? _ ” Jaskier cries, unable to help himself or the tears that come again. “You said I was—”

“Our wife,” Eskel finishes. “Our precious flower. This is the last of it.” 

“ _ Fuck  _ you.” He sobs. 

“Just this,” Geralt whispers. “Then it’s over. Bite down.”

He presses a bit of leather into Jaskier’s mouth and presses a kiss to the edge of it. 

Then, “Hurry  _ up _ .”

Jaskier would feel betrayed at the sudden, overwhelming  _ agony  _ biting into the flesh between his right hip and his ass, but he hasn’t known these people long enough. 

He has only just met his husbands.   
  


-  
  


“One more thing touches my ass today, and I’ll poison your food,” Jaskier growls as soon as he blinks his way out of unconsciousness. 

He’s careful as he rolls up onto his good knee, then levers himself into a half-sit on his spared left side. Not entirely unlike a comely maiden in a boudoir portrait, if she also happened to be  _ completely furious.  _

Eskel and Geralt are missing, but Lambert sits with his legs folded in the makeshift nest while Vesemir leans forward in a chair not far from the hearth. 

He’s going to have a  _ thing _ about that, son of a— 

“Ah, so he’s back with us.”  Vesemir rumbles. 

The man has the gall to sound  _ pleased. _

Once, Hugo told Julian that his indignation likened him to a harpy. He rarely takes the criticism of his uninspired relations to heart, but he’s about to unleash it on this entire blighted mountain top. 

“There were things you  _ missed  _ in the orientation speech,” he says, prim and cool. “Like the undisclosed body parts. And the surprise  _ maiming. _ ”

“A Witcher's wife is protected and pampered. You shall live in pleasure, a treasure in our keep.”

“A Witcher’s wife has a  _ brand  _ on their ass. You didn’t  _ protect me _ from that,” Jaskier hisses back, twisting at the waist to view the salve-sticky design  _ permanently burnt  _ into what his mother ever so aptly referred to as his ‘sit-upon.’ 

He doesn’t imagine he’ll be doing  _ that  _ for a while. Not with—

“ _ Tell me _ .” His voice is a great deal more shrill than he intended. “ _ Tell me  _ that there is not a  _ wolf’s head  _ branded into my  _ ass. _ ”

“It’s symbolic.”

“It’s not bloody  _ symbolic.  _ It’s pretty  _ fucking  _ literal . _ Does nuance  _ **_escape_ ** _ you people?! _ ”

Eskel peeks his head in at the doorway, still naked, from what Jaskier can see,  carrying a tray of food . There’s a flower in what appears to be a  _ beaker.  _ “Why is he screaming? What’s wrong?”

Geralt shuffles in behind him, a length of silk slung over his arm—a robe. How nice. 

“‘ _ He _ ’ is right here, ‘ _ he _ ’ is unhappy, and ‘ _ he’ _ has a  _ bloody  _ wolf-”

“Yes. Wolf’s head. On your ass,” Lambert repeats tersely, “You’ve pointed that out about, oh, ten times now.” 

“ _ Don’t _ . Don’t make light of this. I signed on to  _ hermit  _ myself with you, and not one of you has taken a moment to  _ explain  _ anything to me. You  _ burnt  _ me.”

Lambert lets out a low whine, shifting where he sits. For all the roughness, he’s yet to move more than a few feet from his new wife. 

“It’s generally best if you don’t know beforehand. Less time to worry.”  Vesemir nods, agreeing with himself. 

Jaskier could scream. Could reach out and throttle the man, as ineffective as that would ultimately  _ be.  _ He would genuinely like to, but at the moment he’s in a great deal of pain. He hates that he starts to cry instead. 

“Son of a  _ bitch. _ ” He sniffs. “You  _ hurt  _ me. I’m stuck with you, and you  _ hurt  _ me.”

This, it seems, Lambert can’t endure. He scoots back a bit, toward Jaskier, and very gently pulls him half into his lap. “Never again,” he says. 

“You would be surprised how  _ many  _ husbands say that to their wives and then beat the  _ shit  _ out of them, next their mood turns.”

Eskel growls as if the idea itself is something he can fight, but he, too, is gentle when he comes to join them in the nest, setting down the tray. He plucks up a round, brightly-colored fruit and rolls it in his palms. 

_ Keeping his hands busy.  _

“We don’t think to explain it. It’s been…” He looks to Vesemir. 

“Sixty eight years. Heron was with us for two before…” The older man looks stricken, but he gathers himself. “I should have told you. You’re right. Without another wife here to guide you, it falls to me, and I failed.”

And then he’s kneeling just beyond the nest, golden eyes fixed on Jaskier’s. His fingers are rough as he grabs the bard’s hands, but warm. His thumb worries the heel of the younger man’s palm. 

Jaskier’s patience is worn thin by the time he opens his mouth again. 

“I understand that our actions seem strange to an outsider. The brand serves two purposes: it is a sign of your pledge to us, a mark of loyalty. And it protects you from others—anyone who sees that mark knows that, if harm should come to you,  _ we  _ would avenge you.” At the last, Vesemir’s voice grows faint, his gaze distant. 

His pain weighs on Jaskier’s awareness like a  _ weight.  _ It doesn’t take a genius, though he  _ is _ one, to understand that, for all the talk of wives, there must have been  _ several  _ where now there are  _ none.  _

He wonders if Vesemir has been able to avenge  _ any _ . 

He’s truly sympathetic to that, he  _ is  _ a tender soul after all, but that doesn’t really bode well for  _ his  _ future—though it would make a good song…that no one would ever  _ hear _ . 

Fuck.

“Alright.  _ Fuck _ . Look. I can maybe put aside the  _ maiming,  _ but for the love of the  _ gods, _ you have to  _ talk  _ to me about  _ what  _ is going to happen,  _ how _ it is going to happen, and  _ when  _ with  _ full _ disclosure.”  He sets his shoulders, glaring at all of them in turn. It is, admittedly, somewhat lessened by his maidenly  _ sprawl _ across the furs. He has to twist to look at Geralt, and it makes him  _ angrier.  _

“Like the fact that you have a  _ knot _ ,” He points an accusatory finger at his stricken-looking husband. “Which is not a thing that humans  _ expect _ .”

“It felt good, though...right?” Lambert shifts, visibly uncomfortable. 

“ _ That isn’t how consent works. _ ” 

Lambert has the good sense to duck his head as Jaskier continues. He  _ will not  _ be made to feel guilty. 

“The knotting, while pleasurable, was unexpected. I didn’t get to  _ agree _ to it. I didn’t really get to agree to anything. ‘Marry us or hop down the mountain in the snow’ was a  _ shit  _ choice.”

Vesemir frowns. “Most people don’t get—” 

“ _ That does not help. _ I would have  _ died  _ on the way back down.”

“They used to get a choice,” Geralt says, very softly, and Jaskier remembers him saying something similar the night before. 

“Did you often find people on the mountain?”

Geralt glances at Vesemir and sighs, finally moving to join them in the nest. His hands are gentle as he urges Lambert to help him wrap Jaskier in the robe. 

Vesemir makes a grating sound in his throat. “We found them on the Path. By the time anyone made it up the mountain, it was because they knew what that  _ meant _ . If they wanted to  _ leave _ , it was already a betrayal.”

_ Trust issues.  _ He is backwoods “married” to a set of heavily armed  _ trust issues.  _

“I want that.” Jaskier sighs, trying to focus on the slide of silk against his skin rather than the aching of the brand. “I would have said yes, if you’d let me. You saved my life.”

“We set the trap,” Eskel says, prying at the flesh of the orange and plucking a segment free. “Sort of our responsibility.”

“If you’re going to stuff that in my mouth to shut me up, this argument  _ will  _ get worse.” 

“You’ll heal faster with something in your belly.”

“I’ve got  _ loads  _ in my belly. I’m good.” 

“ _ Please _ eat the fucking orange?” Lambert tries. 

“Is that genuinely the best I’m going to get out of you people?”

“Jaskier, would you like something to eat?” Geralt asks, his deep rumble surprising. 

“...Yes. Thank you, darling.” Jaskier tries to smile. 

Geralt leans in to kiss his forehead, takes the prepared slice of fruit, and offers it up within Jaskier’s reach, allowing him to take it at leisure. Jaskier gives him a small, wry smile and takes the morsel into his mouth. Perhaps lingering a little on the fingers before pulling away. Geralt leans in once again, this time to Jaskier’s lips. 

Then Lambert is kissing his shoulders, the most he can reach with Jaskier in his lap. Eskel runs gentle fingers through his hair, a sweet little smile on his face. 

Tart, bright orange juice bursts across his tongue, and he doesn’t mind sharing at all. 

Vesemir watches, there at the edge of the nest. Reading them all like a particularly fascinating passage. A new installment, maybe. “I owe you an apology, little starling.” His fingers graze the edge of the silk, colors shimmering in the light. A fine thing. “I suppose an old dog  _ should  _ learn new tricks.”

-

Jaskier doesn’t get a chance to ask what that means until later in the evening, after his husbands have finished up their chores. They took turns, throughout the day, tending to his brand and his wounded leg, keeping him entertained. 

They shared bowls full of thick, hearty stew with warm, crusty bread, all wrapped together. Jaskier  _ still  _ doesn’t know if the keep has actual  _ beds  _ to speak of. For now, the furs and his new silk robe serve him well enough. 

After dinner, they arrange themselves around him again, and Vesemir sits at his feet, grizzled hand resting on his ankle. “How might we make you happy here, sweet wife?”

Jaskier is quiet for just a moment. 

If the man is  _ asking… _

“I’m a bard. I’ll miss having an audience.” Three sets of eyes blink up at him. The picture would be almost  _ cute,  _ if they didn’t reflect the light quite so unsettlingly. “And I have expensive taste.”

Vesemir barks a laugh. 

“You’d be surprised by the amount of material treasure here. And of course we shall listen to you sing. In the winters, especially, you shall have a hundred eager listeners.”

“...a hundred? I’m married to  _ a hundred  _ of you?” Jaskier pales. Perhaps he could  _ roll  _ himself down the mountain. 

Vesemir winces. “Don’t yell, love. Save your voice. Please.”

“You’re a Wolf wife,” Eskel explains before Jaskier can scream. “There are only four of us. Kaer Morhen is the only keep left standing, so the schools all shelter here for the winter.”

“Except the cats,” Lambert adds, helpfully. “They travel by caravan. And they’d go batshit, locked up here. Batshittier. Yeah just. Don’t go near one, they’re all fucked up. They’ll try to put your eyes in a jar or somethin’.”

“Like a family reunion, but with more knives. Minus a few cousins.”

“Didn’t think nobles could get together without backstabbing,” Geralt mutters. 

“We absolutely can’t. But if I move about while I sing, no one can hit me. It’s the inbreeding, we have terrible aim.” He squints an eye and pantomimes tossing a dagger. 

It draws enough laughter to keep him warm as the robe slips from his shoulder. Geralt is quick to right it, and kisses the hem when he’s done. 

“No one sings for us,” Lambert says. “ _ About  _ us, sometimes.”

“Shitty nursery rhymes don’t count.” Eskel frowns. 

“Tell me of your adventures and I’ll never run out of songs to sing.”

“Or ears to listen.” Vesemir nods, gesturing around at his students. “The pups have begged for a wife since the moment they popped their first knots. Ask for anything, and it will be yours.”

“I want...a lute. To start.”

“Yours is safe, still, but we can find you more. A gold one, if you like.” Vesemir seems unnervingly pleased to oblige him.

“Gold makes for horrible acoustics.”

The man deflates.

“One of elven make, I wouldn’t mind…”

“Done. We’ve friends among the elves, even now.”

“I’m tempted to ask for clothing, but how can one enjoy silks and velvets if one does not wear them?”

Lambert grins. “Could stand to watch you all dolled up in pretty things.”

Jaskier can’t help but blush. It’s more attention than he’s ever received at once. He clears his throat. “If you think I’ll be sitting down doing  _ nothing  _ all the time, you are sorely mistaken. I hope you have some sort of library in this dreary castle.”

“You shall have your stories, bard. And countless songs to sing.” Vesemir’s hand slides further up, his eyes not so much glowing in the dim as  _ searing  _ into Jaskier. 

“But I’m busy tonight,” he whispers. 

Four matching grins surround him, and he really  _ should  _ be nervous around this many teeth. 

“You’ve got the idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time for another installment of Frat Boys with Swords.


	3. Healing Up (And Getting Down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One does not bet against a Sicillian or threaten a Witcher with a good time. 
> 
> A rolled-up newspaper, maybe. 
> 
> -
> 
> Jaskier goes about winning friends and influencing people. (With orgasms.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The general consensus on the chapter title was 'Healing Up and Getting Down,' and for a moment I thought 'that's undignified.' 
> 
> But my idea was 'Geralt's Magical Healing Nipples,' so I'm a dirty liar. 
> 
> We took in your compliments and concerns, and return to you with another peek at the plot and also even more witchers. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> -
> 
> I promise there will be plot, but I keep getting distracted by porn and school work. Don't think too hard on that last part.
> 
> \- Weary

One upside to his dubious new situation is that Witchers come prepared for virtually any injury—internal, external, or metaphysical. The immediate downside is that their various salves and tinctures aren't exactly the pricey potions and creams riddling his mother's vanity.

Geralt frowns as he holds his breath and puffs out his cheeks, much like he did when he was six, refusing to drink the fell substance on offer. “Come on. It’s flavored with licorice.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but they _hate_ you and I’m sorry.”

“It will help. Hold your nose and knock it back.”

“Meh.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“If you’re offering to mount me again, it’s not as effective. I’m so full of semen I’m seaworthy.”

Geralt gives him a flat look. “Please?”

“Ugh, fine.”

It _does_ taste a bit like licorice, but with a certain hint of burnt clothes and a tang of despair. He chugs the stuff as quickly as he can—tries not to gag—and Geralt runs a soothing hand up and down his thigh. 

He pushes a mug of ale into Jaskier’s hands, which the bard immediately uses to drown out the foul taste. 

Geralt goes to apply the salve next, his touch as gentle as always. 

Except he’s _pouting._

Honestly, Jaskier’s not _actually_ going to turn down another mind-blowing orgasm. It’s just nice to have something to _do._ It’s been over a _week,_ cooped up in the nest.

He sucks his teeth a bit, only to find more of that _godsawful_ tincture lingering. 

“Ugh! I dare you to kiss me right now. That is _nox—_ ” 

Geralt’s lips are on his before he can finish. 

The taste fades away quickly enough—or it seems to under the sensation of Geralt’s tongue sliding against his own, mapping out territory that is, at this point, forfeit. 

Jaskier whines when he pulls back. 

“What have I won?” Geralt purrs. 

“Huh?”

“You dared me to kiss you. What’s my prize?”

Someone’s feeling playful.

Considering Geralt’s usual brooding quiet, it’s a phenomenon Jaskier will only ever wish to encourage. 

He slides clever fingers past the band of Geralt’s trousers, palming the weight of his cock, soft for now, but he can feel it filling against his fingers. If nothing else, his new playmates are eager to please, always. 

He should return the favor. 

“I haven’t gotten to suck you yet.” Jaskier cants his head, trying for thoughtfulness. “Would you like that, do you think?” 

Geralt’s gaze is bright and piercing as the bard bites his lip. 

Jaskier rotates his wrist a bit, varying pressure. Toying with warm flesh. 

“Or is this enough? Could you knot my fist, do you think?”

The Witcher lets out a ragged breath, almost but not quite a whimper. 

“Or could you hold off if I let you fuck my face?”

Geralt bucks into his hand, firmed up considerably. Jaskier likes the weight of it, the give when he tightens his grip. 

“Don’t be rude. Talk to me.”

“Your mouth, please. So fucking sweet, that mouth.”

“You really haven’t known me long at all.” Jaskier laughs, but he presses a kiss to the corner of Geralt’s lips and nods his head. “Get undressed for me?”

One would think that disrobing was a course taught here, with as quickly as Geralt manages it. Jaskier is content to sit back and watch, enjoying the flex of muscles, the eagerness of the motion. 

“You’re staring.” he says, once he’s finished, shoulders hunching forward a bit. 

“Are you feeling vulnerable?”

Geralt frowns. 

“We’re married. You came inside me naught but hours ago.” Jaskier scoots forward a bit. “It was good.”

Nothing. 

“You’re self-conscious.”

“Anyone can see the scars. And you’re…”

“Pampered as shit. Not blind. And uh…” He motions toward his leg and hip. “Also not without blemish. It doesn’t change how devastating you are, fuck.”

Geralt’s ears tint when he blushes. He’ll deny it until pigs man the garrison, but he does. 

Jaskier moves closer still, settling between Geralt’s legs, his own stretched behind him. “I was admiring you. You’re built like a god, and you’ve got the prettiest pink nipples I’ve ever fucking seen.”

Geralt tries to cover his face, but Jaskier catches the offending hand and sucks two fingers into his mouth. The wet sucking noises are enough to _ruin_ what’s left of Geralt’s composure.

Content, Jaskier moves the slicked fingers to his own chest, encouraging them to tease his own peaked nipples.

“You wanted to play with me. Do it…or would you like to touch _yourself_ while I suck you?”

Geralt bucks his hips, another rattling breath filling the air. “I…”

“I’d like to see that. Watch you tease yourself while you use my mouth. Will you let me?” He rubs at the warm flesh of Geralt’s hip, suggestive. Eager. 

Geralt doesn’t answer verbally, only nods very slightly and watches, unblinking, as he’s pushed down against the pillows.

Jaskier telegraphs his movements, positioning himself carefully before lifting Geralt’s right leg over his shoulder and kissing the crease of his thigh. He watches his husband’s stomach contract with nerves and smothers his smile in warm skin.

In the light of day, Geralt’s cock is even more impressive, long and thick, nearly touching his belly. Jaskier ghosts a kiss over the loose skin of his knot before mouthing at his balls.

“Won’t you tell me how you want it?”

Geralt takes a deep breath. “Haven’t had much variety. Paid company tends to go for ‘fast’ and then ‘over with.’”

Jaskier makes a wounded noise, which is cheapened a bit as he kisses his way up his lover’s cock. “How anyone could get their hands on you and not take _full advantage_ is beyond me.”

And then Jaskier isn’t saying anything at all, because there’s a cock in his mouth.

He’s a bit too eager at first, gagging himself by accident, and then again on purpose when he notes the rushed gasp it forces out of his partner. The harsh intrusion in his throat is a burn that he’s come to enjoy over time.

Very much.

He can feel that alien dampness in his hole, again, the brush of furs against his own swelling erection.

He can get used to anything, with the right incentive. 

For now, he focuses on the way Geralt fills his mouth, the gentle ache in his jaw, the feeling of drool pooling around him. The taste of sweat, the faint perfume of soap, and the first hints of cum spill into his awareness.

They’re only just getting started. 

He glances up and stops. 

Geralt is staring down at him, lips parted. Panting. But his hands are tangled in the fabrics of the nest.

He looks _betrayed_ when Jaskier pulls off.

“I want you to touch yourself. Will you do that for me?”

The flush comes back with a vengeance. Geralt looks dumbstruck, as if he wasn’t actually expecting the bard to _mean it._

“You want me to—”

Jaskier says nothing, just waits until Geralt makes a frustrated growling noise and goes to oblige him, rough and thoughtless.

Only to jerk and hiss as he pinches his nipples a touch too hard.

His legs tighten around Jaskier, who can’t help but laugh. “See?”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“You’re so sensitive.” He sighs, then turns to bite down on Geralt’s thigh and suck _hard._ “So fucking _lovely._ ”

A strangled noise wrings free of Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier is content enough to sink back down on his slick cock, eyes fixed on the sight of Geralt teasing his own pretty tits.

More, now. He eases Geralt into his throat, teasing himself as much as the larger man. He rocks his hips, though his injury bars full range of motion.

Geralt watches, rapt and panting, and frees one hand to tangle strong fingers into Jaskier’s hair. He doesn’t push him down—he’s not there, yet—but he does tighten his grip when Jaskier does something particularly _good._

It’s _too_ good, watching Geralt start to come apart under their combined efforts. He’s genuinely never pleasured himself like this before. Now it seems he’s hooked.

Jaskier fully intends to get off on the image of Geralt’s thumb rolling and flicking his reddening nipple, groaning and gasping, golden eyes fixated on Jaskier as he gags on his cock.

Soon enough, he’s patting that firm stomach, urging the other man to participate more, to move his hips—fuck his face in earnest. Geralt hesitates at first—he knows exactly how fortunate he is, but Jaskier isn’t about to be denied for some silly nod to politeness.

Geralt abandons his chest completely. Both hands tangle in sweat-damp locks as he guides Jaskier like a cock sleeve, moaning and sighing around hard flesh.

He rolls his hips, burying himself deep and working his hips in little figure eights before withdrawing to allow the younger man to breathe.

And then they start over again.

Jaskier is _wet_ now. Slick spills from his hole, down over his cock and balls, and drips onto the furs with his pre. Unfortunately, this dampens and flattens the fur beneath him, which provides less and less friction as he works his hips for some semblance of relief. 

He whimpers as Geralt ruts harder, faster, his head falling back as he swears softly to himself and praises Jaskier’s name to the gods. 

But _they_ won’t get him off. 

He’s stunned for a moment at the sudden stinging in his scalp—Geralt tugging him up, up, and off. Sticky cum splatters against his face, and he opens his mouth, unwilling to miss any more as Geralt groans and writhes beneath him.

At the first pause, he licks his lips and reaches down as if in afterthought, wrapping a tight fist about his swelling knot. “Fuck, look at you. This is what it’s like, then. When you fill me up.”

Geralt isn’t exactly able to answer him, shaking apart as another wave of pleasure rolls over him. He watches with fever-bright eyes as Geralt makes a mess of them both, riding each peak as it comes until finally the man stills, sated. 

“You. Did you…?” Geralt has some brief difficulty getting up, his stomach muscles fluttering in the aftermath, but not for too long. He cups Jaskier’s prick and ducks his head to nose against the bard’s pulse. 

“Not yet. Please?”

Geralt looks at him, really looks at him, draped over his thighs, legs splayed carefully to avoid his injury. And then his eyes catch on the damp patch where he’d tried and failed to get himself off in the furs.

“Ah,” Geralt says, trying for disappointment and failing. “Had some trouble?”

Jaskier tries to think of something appropriately sarcastic to say, but settles on a startled squeak as he’s pulled up to straddle Geralt’s thigh.

Their faces are much closer, now, so Jaskier can see every ounce of wickedness as Geralt rumbles: 

**“ _Try again._ ”**

-

As they lie together, panting in the afterglow, warm and safe and content, Jaskier shifts against Geralt’s side. He feels the slickness on his thighs, and scrunches his nose in confusion. 

The broad chest beneath his cheek collapses in a heavy sigh. “What are you thinking about _now_?”

“The ah...the slick. That’s what the potion was for, during…?” He wiggles his fingers in the air as if to indicate _the fuckening._

“Initiation.”

“That.”

“Yes.”

“How long are the effects going to last, exactly?”

The slow rise and fall of Geralt’s breathing abruptly stops, and Jaskier can suddenly mark an almost _human_ heartbeat.

_Oh, you fucker._

“The answer is going to make me _angry_ , isn’t it?”

“It’s for your comfort as much as—”

“ _Son of a_ **_bitch!_ **” 

-

Jaskier’s ire, while well-deserved, lasts only for an hour once Geralt calls for Lambert and Eskel to join them. 

He tries not to jerk away when Eskel places a gentle hand on his ankle. 

“There’s nothing else.” He promises. “Nothing else happened that night.”

“Not that _we_ can think of.” Lambert adds, bitterly. “But something might’ve struck _you._ Ask us anything.” 

Jaskier does. 

They’re honest, which makes him feel a bit better…

But he still banishes them from the nest for the night. 

+

It takes a week or so for his leg and brand to allow him to sit upright with only mild discomfort. Walking is still an entirely unpleasant activity, and his husbands refuse to let him do it. 

The ridiculous stretching routine was entertaining for a bit, but even that became monotonous after a few days. The sex was good— _wonderful_ , even, now that they’ve established certain boundaries and disclosed the necessary information—but he still spends his time in a warm nest with little else to do in-between. 

So they started bringing him books. 

Stacks and stacks of books, which must mean that there _is_ a library, albeit one filled with manuals on the proper way to _murder_ things. 

Like the one open in his lap now, a treatise on why no one should ever _sleep_ with a bruxa, tempting as the thought may occasionally be. 

He groans. 

Eskel, currently on wife-sitting duty, bends over from his position combing fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “What is it?”

“While I’m sure this is useful knowledge, I’d _kill_ for a good old fashioned trashy romance.”

“No need for that, lily. Cöen will lend you some of his if you ask nicely.”

“Who? 

“Cöen, a Griffin.”

“A Grif— _there are other people here_?” 

Eskel’s fingers catch around air as Jaskier nearly throws himself out of the nest, stumbles onto his good foot, and hops toward the door at the prospect of _more people to talk to._

“Stop that! You’ll hurt yourself on the stairs.”

“If I have to read one more herbal manual _I will scream._ ”

Geralt pokes his head in the door, blinking at the sight of Jaskier, one leg bent like a school child at hopscotch, Eskel holding onto his silk sleeve. “You’re going downstairs like that?”

Jaskier _hisses_ at him. 

-

Ten minutes later, three Witchers are easing him into a pair of Eskel’s linen ‘convalescing pants.’ 

(Apparently they’re more comfortable to bleed in and easier to bleach clean.) 

“Is there a matching shirt?”

Eskel laughs. 

“I’m not meeting a bunch of strange people without a shirt on.”

“They already know who you are, dove. It’s expected that you’ll—”

“I don’t care if Mother Nenneke can smell your cum on me from a league away. I want at least a thin veneer of dignity.”

Geralt presses his nose to the crown of his head, brushes his lips across messy locks. “Eskel. Get him a shirt. We can cinch it with cord.” 

Jaskier crooks a finger at him, and he bends down to receive a kiss on the cheek for his trouble. 

“Thank you, dear.”

-

The trip down to the Great Hall is quicker than Jaskier would have thought, but then again, he has very little concept of the keep’s layout. When he can finally _walk_ without his husbands making wounded puppy noises, he supposes he’ll have to explore.

The Great Hall is...certainly great in terms of _size_ . It isn’t entirely without decoration. There are carvings and tiles, even a mural at the far end depicting a Witcher hunting some beast. But, it’s clear that it hasn’t been _cared for_. The whitewash is chipping off and the windows are dingy with dirt. Some sturdy tables remain, but many look rough hewn—hasty replacements. 

_Did they wrestle in here?_

To make matters worse, there is junk seemingly piled in corners, and— 

_Gods, is that a cage?_

He realizes, abruptly, that the hall is _dead_ quiet, but not unoccupied. Around a dozen unfamiliar Witchers are scattered across the long tables, some frozen with food halfway to their mouths, two half-grappling each other, and one, notably, looking up from where he’s clearly been knocked to the floor. 

Their eyes are all glowing, and all fixed on him. 

Eskel clears his throat. “This is Jaskier.”

Someone yells, “Hail, Żona!”

And the silence _splits._ The Witchers burst into thunderous applause, some hooting. A thin man with dark hair and a scar across one eye places fingers to his lips and whistles. 

Jaskier looks up at Geralt, _very_ confused. “Please tell me I’m not getting stuffed into one of those cages.”

Geralt smiles, and Jaskier can feel laughter in his chest. “No.” He says, “The bench will do just fine.”

Jaskier tries on the flat grimace Geralt seems to have perfected. 

“You have no idea how happy they are to see you.” The arms around him _squeeze_ , and he realizes that Geralt is hugging him. Geralt is _proud._

And then they’re moving again, going to sit with a man who _would_ be bald if not for the impressive tattoo spanning his scalp. He boasts an impressive beard and a cheery smile. “Hail, Żona,” he repeats. “I’m Cöen, of the Griffin School. It is my honor to make your acquaintance.”

“Jaskier.” Cöen blinks at him, waiting, as Geralt settles him on the bench. “Ugh. Sorry. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, late of that one bear trap on the mountain. I hear you have smut.”

_Cöen_ thinks he’s funny. 

The man smiles bright and wide, and his broad shoulders shake with laughter. “I’ve collected a few novels on the Path. I enjoy a proper romance. And an improper one, occasionally. I would be happy to lend them.”

“You can talk about the proper art of swooning.” Lambert grins at his right, reaching for an apple before Eskel swats his hand away— _make him a plate first._

Geralt sits close on his left, arm slung loose about him as he gestures to the rest of the table’s occupants. The first is the man who whistled: “Stefan the Crane, of the Crane School.”

_Were they all…?_

“And Guiles the Gull, of the same.”

_Yep._

Cöen points to a thin, wiry man plucking nervously at his plate. “That’s Jerome, another Griffin. He’s been through some hardship recently. Don’t hold it against him.”

Jerome winces, but ducks his head when he meets Jaskier’s eye. “Hail, Żona. It is good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, Jerome,” Jaskier agrees, his smile both sudden and helplessly honest. “I’m a very good listener, if you…”

The man’s eye brightens a bit, lip twisting up. “I’ll remember.”

Geralt hums, pleased, and points again, this time to a table removed from the others. “That’s Gerd. He’s not _unfriendly_. Bears just don’t socialize much.”

He motions to the remaining full table, occupied by four dark-haired witchers, two men and two women, who appear to be goading each other into a drinking contest. _In the morning._ “That’s Merten, Zigor, Nuka, and Watana. Manticores. If they offer you anything to drink, have one of us try it first.”

“Right. So where are the rest? You mentioned there being more…”

“Eager to find a sympathetic ear?” Stefan laughs, a surprisingly airy sound. “Many of our brothers and sisters are traveling, still. Others may winter elsewhere.”

“Like Letho.” Lambert grunts, pushing a plate of food in front of Jaskier. “Jackass.”

Eskel sighs. “He’s not _that_ bad.”

“He’s a _jackass._ ”

“ _So are you._ ”

“He’s the last of his school,” Geralt explains, quietly. “A Viper. They were wiped out _twice._ You may have heard him called the Kingslayer. Don’t repeat it.”

“Of course not.” Jaskier frowns. 

Cöen nods, as if this is a good and noble _basic decency_ he’s agreed to. “You’re not Nilfgaardian, are you?” 

“Redanian.”

“Good. Lead with that.”

“Right, good old Redania,” Jaskier agrees, looking down at the fish _staring up at him_ from his plate. “Whooo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is funny because stairs, get it? We do high-brow jokes, too. 
> 
> So as I sit here rhapsodizing about actual plot and not toploading porn? That's...that's the next chapter. 
> 
> Weary wanted to have a 'discussion' about possibly adding more detailed 'intimacy' to this chapter, so I ended up hiding in a 'Word document' and throwing porn in her face. Because friendship really do be like that sometimes. 
> 
> See you on Saturday.


	4. Patience is a Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has been laid up for what feels like _ages_ , but Eskel has a way of making even _accounting_ interesting. 
> 
> -
> 
> Several Witchers try and fail to figure out the mechanics of courtship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Banging two pots together - 
> 
> THERE'S PLOT IN THE NEXT CHAPTER, PEOPLE. I WON'T BE STOPPED.
> 
> I don't think I can properly express the screaming panic that consumed me when I thought that I'd mistranslated 'żona.' Special thanks to Radaan for reassuring us that it does, in fact, mean 'wife' and no one is yelling, 'What up, ho?' at breakfast. 
> 
> The cheese mark, indeed.
> 
> \- Elpie

For all that Jaskier has complained about the general lack of entertainment barring reading and sex, the sex  _ is  _ very nice. The problem  _ is  _ that knotting is yet another thing keeping him  _ still  _ for what feels like hours on end. 

It makes him  _ anxious.  _

So he’s keen to agree when Eskel asks if he’d like to join him in his room while he balances the ledger. It’s not exactly whirling and wailing for an impassioned crowd, but it can’t  _ hurt.  _

The shelf boasts several books on magical theory, something that Eskel apparently has some skill in, and Jaskier contemplates his options very briefly before Eskel pushes him down onto the bed. 

“Oh,” he says.

Eskel looks down at him, head canted. “You don’t want to?”

“No, it’s just. I mean...the getting there is fun, but then I’ll be stuck in place for an hour, doing nothing. Not that talking with you is nothing. I just want…”

“To not be  _ stuck _ ,” Eskel finishes. 

“ _ Yes. _ ”

“Mmm. You know, I thought we’d try something new today.”

Jaskier shifts up onto his elbows, eager to hear propositions for anything  _ new _ . He can’t wait until his bloody leg heals. 

“Are you interested?”

“Are there any surprises I should be worried about?”

“Nothing you haven’t enjoyed before. It’s all very simple.”

Jaskier  _ squints _ at him. “That’s a ringing endorsement for your skills.” He pitches his voice higher. “How  _ was  _ he, Lucinda? Oh, nothing I haven’t enjoyed before. Very  _ simple. _ ”

“Someone is in a mood,” Eskel murmurs into Jaskier’s shoulder. “I can fix that.”

“Prove it.”

Historically, one of the dumber things he  _ keeps electing to say.  _

“Gladly.”

It’s easy enough to get him undressed—even now that he’s taken to being carried about the keep in Eskel’s bleeding linens, the clothing remains within the theme of ‘easy access’. Times like this, Jaskier isn’t inclined to object. 

Especially not as Eskel drags warm lips over sensitive skin, lingering for a moment at his navel, making him squirm and giggle. His cock is half hard when Eskel bypasses it, kissing his thigh before propping his legs up for proper access to his hole.

“Anyone ever tasted you before?”

“Eskel.”

“Yes?”

“ _ Why the fuck are you still talking? _ ”

Eskel chuckles to himself, leaning in to run his tongue roughly from his rim to just below his balls, teasing before settling in to massage him properly. 

Jaskier  _ yelps _ as his husband finally licks inside, fingers tangling in Eskel’s hair and yanking him closer. There’s no protest on Eskel’s part, only a long, low moan that  _ vibrates  _ inside him, and that’s good, too. 

So good. 

Everything about this is strange—obviously, he’s taken bigger insertions, writhed on knots the size of Witcher’s fists, but they weren’t so flexible. Couldn’t curl inside him and rub against him this way. 

Like this, Eskel can tease him, rack him with pleasure and pull away in turns. 

It’s  _ cruel,  _ and it feels fucking  _ fantastic.  _

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Jaskier whines. “So good.”

And then, because the world is unkind and Eskel has a terrible sense of justice, he pulls back and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s fluttering hole. “Not bored?”

“Something is very…” He struggles to take in a proper breath. “Very wrong...with you.”

“Mmm. You should wash my mouth out with soap.”

“ _ Melitele’s tits,  _ please do that—do that  _ more. _ ”

“You want me to keep eating you out? I could. You taste so fucking sweet. So wet for me. Not all of our medicines are so bad, mmm?”

“Mmmmhm. Please?”

“Or do you want something bigger than my tongue?”

Another whine. 

Eskel laughs again, rough and raspy, and rests on one elbow while his free hand toys with Jaskier’s balls. 

“Fuck, anything. Knot me, I’ll stay still.”

“Oh, we’re not doing that. Not this time, but you  _ will  _ stay still. Because you  _ want _ to, don’t you? You want to be a good boy for me?”

Something not far from a scream swells in Jaskier’s throat. Eskel tightens his grip, very briefly, but there’s not much room for him to thrash. 

“Anything. Anything you want. I’ll be good.”

“It’s chilly here. Won’t you keep me warm? Be sweet for me?” He presses a kiss to the join of hip and thigh on Jaskier’s uninjured leg. 

And then he  _ leaves _ —rises from the bed as if everything is  _ perfectly  _ normal, and Jaskier isn’t leaking and clutching at the blankets. 

_ B a s t a r d.  _

Eskel settles in his desk chair, pats his lap, and  _ waits.  _ “Come on, then, sweetheart.”

Jaskier has to be careful as he moves from the bed. Bites his lip as his slick spills onto the sheets, sticking them to his skin. The flush spreads from his cheeks, down to his shoulders and chest. He feels hot with the shame of it. It’s  _ strange _ , feeling his thighs slide against each other. 

The distance between the bed and Eskel’s chair is mercifully not  _ too  _ far, but it’s strange to hobble to him like this. When he finally stands before the man, eyes wet and breath shaking, warm hands wrap about his hips, gentling him. 

“Do you need help, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know…”

“Let me help, then.” Eskel smiles indulgently as he pulls him into his lap, back to chest, strong hands guiding him to slide down onto his cock. “Mmmm.  _ There _ . Isn’t that better?”

“I don’t—” His chest  _ heaves  _ at the pressure of it, the wet squelching sound as he shifts in Eskel’s lap. It’s  _ good _ . It’s never  _ not  _ good, but there’s something  _ strange  _ about the exposure—being completely naked in Eskel’s lap, feeling the fabric of the Witcher’s pants rasp against his skin. 

He watches, almost detached from himself, as Eskel’s arms wrap around him and open the ledger, taking up the pen to begin his work. 

Here he is, speared open and helpless as Eskel goes about his daily tasks, hot and impossibly hard inside him. Another kiss falls against his shoulder. “Just like that, sweet. Be good.”

-

It shouldn’t feel so different, Eskel buried inside him, broad chest pressed to his back, unable to move…

Except Jaskier  _ can  _ move. There’s no knot locking them together.

He can  _ stop  _ this at any time, go do something else to ease his boredom. Get away from the stimulus that leaves his skin burning and oversensitive. 

But he’s  _ not bored _ this time. If anything, he’s not being stimulated  _ enough.  _

Eskel’s cock is an iron bar inside him, his insides clenching down on the heft of it, wet and hot and  _ humiliating.  _ He wants Eskel to move, to pick him up and slam him back down. 

He wants to be made to  _ take  _ it as hard as Eskel can give, wants to be  _ greedy _ . Wants to be fucked. 

But Eskel is busy, doing his maths and making entries in the ledger, occasionally brushing rough fingers over his sensitive cock before leaving him bereft. 

He squirms again. 

It’s been maybe an hour? Two? No one should be hard for this long, should they?

He tries to roll his hips, and gasps as Eskel grinds against him, one hand gripping his waist to drag him in  _ hard  _ as his pen stills. 

And then he stops.

Lips brush the shell of his ear, and he shivers. “I thought you were going to be good for me.”

“I’m  _ trying _ .”

“Are you? You’re squirming around.”

“It’s so hard. I  _ want  _ it.” 

“And you can  _ have  _ it, once I’m done.”

He can’t help but whine. That seems an eternity away, and Eskel is so  _ warm  _ inside of him. He can feel the slick  _ leaking  _ onto his lap, soaking his pants. He  _ has  _ to feel this too, has to know how much he  _ needs  _ it. 

“Please?”

For a moment, Eskel is very quiet. Then, “I’ll make you a deal.” He punctuates the offer with another snap of his hips, dragging against sensitive walls, spilling  _ more.  _ It’s embarrassing. “How are you so wet?  _ Shit. _ ”

Jaskier hiccups. 

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll fuck you now, give you some satisfaction. Soothe that ache of yours...but you don’t get to come until I’m  _ finished. _ ”

“ _ That _ .  _ Yes. _ ” He doesn’t even pause to think about it, just wants more—more friction, more heat, more of the sweet, maddening sensation of Eskel buried inside him again and again. 

He wiggles his hips and Eskel spanks him, hard and sudden. 

“And you’ll be  _ good _ ?”

“ _ Yes _ , Eskel. I’ll be  _ so good. _ ”

“Mmmm. Sweet. Don’t spill on the ledger.”

“What?”

Jaskier gasps as he’s levered up onto the desk, hands and knees, nearly toppling off. The ledger is still open underneath him, neat lines and tidy print. He drops his head, trying to make sure he doesn’t drip pre right onto it, only to catch on the sight of his own hard cock, swollen and dripping as Eskel drives into him again. 

The Witcher’s free hand comes to cup his dick, tutting gently. “What did I just say?”

“I...ah...sorry, I…”

But Eskel isn’t listening closely at all, too busy driving into him, rocking him like a  _ ragdoll _ on the sturdy desk. 

It’s  _ exactly  _ what he wanted—the wet slap of flesh on flesh, calluses scraping over the head of his prick. It certainly isn’t  _ chilly  _ in here anymore. He’s burning, again. 

And then, just when he’s about to come, it stops. 

He’s dragged backward, back onto Eskel’s lap in the desk chair. 

_ No no no no no.  _

“I told you, you don’t get to come until I’m finished.”

_ Son of a bitch. _

-

It happens  _ two more fucking times.  _

The second time, as Eskel drags him back, he struggles to get his legs under him, to support some of his weight off of the chair and ride Eskel  _ himself _ .

But he’s been sitting for so long, and his wound  _ aches  _ when he tries to force weight on it in this position, and he collapses right back down onto Eskel’s cock, sore and whimpering. 

Desperate. 

Eskel shushes him, rubbing his full belly even as his other hand continues filling out the ledger, running the maths in his head, as if this isn’t  _ maddening.  _ “Too much? You want to stop?”

“ _ Fuck  _ you.”

“You’re trying to, aren’t you?” He rolls his hips—just barely, laughing at the squelching sound. “I want to taste you again. Such a good boy.” 

“ _ Eskel _ .”

“There’s a  _ please  _ in there somewhere.”

Jaskier  _ sobs.  _ “Please, Eskel? Please, love? I’ve tried to…mmmm.”

“Good timing, too.” He can  _ hear  _ the smug smile in Eskel’s voice. “That’s the day’s accounting, done.”

Jaskier watches, rapt, as Eskel shuts the ledger and tosses it— _ thump— _ onto the bed behind them.  _ But aren’t we…? _

__ Before he can open his mouth again, he’s being lifted up onto the desk once more, only this time he can’t  _ hold himself up  _ against the onslaught. He collapses across the surface, trying to work his hips and choking, softly. 

“That’s all right, sweetheart.” Eskel coos, hand soothing down the line of his spine. “I’ll do the work, you’ve been so  _ good. _ Hold on.” He bends down to guide Jaskier’s hands, hooking his fingers over the opposite edge even as he presses his sensitive dick against the desk. 

_ “Thank you.”  _ Jaskier gasps as Eskel finally draws back and sets about fucking him into the furniture. They’re making a mess, the two of them. Eskel’s pounds into him relentlessly, groaning and cursing and all of it punctuated by the wet spill of slick. 

Jaskier doesn’t  _ fucking  _ care anymore, focusing on the sweet, searing pleasure of Eskel  _ wrecking  _ him, leaving him drooling and gasping on the old wood. 

This is what he deserves. 

He’s been such a good boy. 

By the time Eskel drags him, screaming, into orgasm, he’s  _ floating.  _ Only vaguely marks Eskel’s withdrawal, and the soft sounds of his Witcher stripping his own cock until warm, sticky cum stripes across his back. 

_ No knot,  _ he remembers. Smiles and licks his lips.

When Eskel collapses over him, pressing lips and teeth and tongues together, Jaskier realizes that he tastes like  _ them _ . 

-

“So,” Eskel nearly  _ purrs,  _ back to the headboard as he curls around the exhausted wife draped in his lap. “Was that boring?”

“Ask me again once you’ve given my  _ bones _ back.”

“So I should talk to the others about varying things up a bit?”

Jaskier whines into his hip. 

...But it does give him certain  _ ideas.  _

-

Jaskier wakes later in the evening, cradled between his husbands, with Eskel running long fingers through his hair. 

Somehow, none of them notice that he’s joined them. 

Mostly because they’re busy  _ bickering  _ with each other. 

“I’m telling you foreplay is  _ important.  _ It’s not just transactional.”

_ Gods _ , Jaskier thinks.  _ My philosopher.  _

Lambert huffs. 

“Geralt, you agree with me.”

Geralt, bless him, shifts in the blankets. Jaskier can’t see his expression, but he can imagine it clear as day when Lambert squawks, “You’re blushing! Why are you blushing?!”

“He sucked me the other day, and encouraged me to...ah…” More shifting. “Eskel’s not wrong.”

“See? More flies with honey!”

“What does that even  _ mean? _ ” Lambert grumbles. 

“If you’re  _ good _ to people, they’ll be  _ good  _ to you back.”

“ _ That _ is a  _ transaction. _ ” 

“It’s an exchange of affections.”

“An exchange is a  _ fucking transaction,  _ Eskel. I blow him, ergo he blows me—that is  _ bartering. _ ”

“He’s not... _ completely _ wrong.” Geralt sounds like this physically pains him. 

There’s quiet for a moment or two, and then Jaskier can’t stop himself from laughing into the furs. “Oh, no.  _ Oh. _ ”

“How long have you been awake?” 

Jaskier sighs. “Long enough for this conversation to be  _ depressing. _ ” He squirms about a bit until Eskel repositions him to lean against his side, half-upright. “Do we have any more of that spiced tea that Vesemir likes?”

“Yeah.” Lambert bobs his head. “I can fetch some.”

“And  _ why _ would you do that?”

Lambert stops, half-way to his feet. “...oh.”

-

Comfortably enveloped in the scents of cinnamon and cardamom, Jaskier studies his husbands, huddled around him with unnervingly grave expressions. 

“Are you aware that you all look as if I’m preparing to shoot you?”

Awkward shifting, but no actual answers. Yikes. 

“I’m not going to tell you that marriages  _ aren’t  _ transactional. I’m a noble.  _ Everything  _ is transactional, and I’d just as soon  _ never do that again. _ ”

Lambert makes a face. 

“I don’t want to trade favors back and forth. You’re not paying for my time or my affection. I’ll give that freely, because I want you to be happy. You’re all very charming, when you aren’t being absolutely insufferable.”

He ignores the indignant huffing, taking a moment to sip his tea and curl his toes in the thick fur at his feet. 

Lambert clears his throat. “What if we...don’t know how to make you happy?”

“Half the fun is learning, I think.” Jaskier hums, eyes darting briefly to Eskel. “Unless you  _ don’t  _ like the idea of spending hours in bed, finding new ways to enjoy each other?”

“You do,” Geralt says, abruptly. “Trust me.” He lifts Jaskier’s feet to place them in his lap, warm hands smoothing over the edge and pressing that  _ one spot _ until the bard makes a pitchy sighing noise. “I should suck  _ your  _ cock more often.” 

“Oh, darling.” Jaskier sighs, pressing his foot into the pressure. “Never go to court. You’d kill them with that sort of honesty.”

Geralt hums, focused, only to make a confused noise when Jaskier withdraws the appendage. 

“But since you  _ are  _ being so honest…” 

He repositions himself, resting his foot much further in Geralt’s lap. 

“Why don’t you share what  _ you  _ liked about our last romp?”

He doesn’t miss the way that Lambert’s face turns just as red as Geralt’s.

_ That _ is interesting. 

But it can wait, for now. 

-

They lay in a heap together, hopelessly tangled, Jaskier’s head nearly falling off of Lambert’s shoulder when the Witcher asks, “So what was your favorite part, then? Any notes?”

There’s a wicked little smile on his lips. 

Jaskier just smiles. 

“I’m looking forward to falling in love with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks go out to Fruit and Mal, whom we love and respect for putting up with _and_ editing our crap.  
> And Ducky, who is busy, but still wonderful.
> 
> Also--I was left unsupervised, and [this](https://photos.app.goo.gl/6wPQfmrpCFuQZsWD7) happened.


	5. Hearth and Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's husbands go out on a hunt, and bring back a moderate host of issues. 
> 
> (And a moose.)
> 
> -
> 
> Jaskier opens up a very important can of worms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early, because of my rabid need for plot. 
> 
> But really, I am _insanely pleased_ at the work in this chapter, and the way Jaskier's begun to settle in to his life at the Keep. It's been an absolute pleasure to write with these wonderful people, and I'm so pumped to get out the hurt/comfort stick. 
> 
> Ugggggh. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> x
> 
> The author's limited patience ran out. Here's the chapter a day early.
> 
> \- Weary

Though Geralt has some natural camouflage in the snowy peaks, it's relatively easy too spot a cadre of Witchers all in black, dragging a _moose_ up the mountainside. 

Vesemir looks on beside him, a buffer against the chill wind atop the walls. The older Witcher has him bundled in heavy furs, a truly _ridiculous_ hat, and thick winter boots. It feels like he’s sitting next to a fire. 

It was an adventure in itself getting up the stairs, but it’s nice to feel a bit of the wind’s sting and watch as Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert bring home their kill. 

Storm clouds are gathering overhead, but it looks like they’ll make it back before the rain—if they can manage to conquer the mess the warmer temperature has made of the ground. 

He only snorts a _little_ when Lambert slips, falls on his backside, and lets out a stream of invectives they can hear from the curtain wall. 

“He’ll be cranky.” Vesemir warns. 

“Is he not _always_?”

The older man cackles as he leads the way back down the steps. 

+

By the time the younger wolves make the courtyard, the grey clouds are roiling overhead. There is thunder in the distance. 

It may be a bit mad, but he’s looking forward to curling up before the fire with a nicely seasoned roast, perhaps some smashed potatoes with bacon fat and rosemary—he knows they keep an herb garden here. Knowing that everyone is content and warm...he can almost feel the brush of fur against his skin. 

Mmm.

Eskel leans in to kiss his cheek and sighs. “It’ll be bread and cheese for supper, I’m afraid.”

“...why?” Jaskier squints, glancing from Eskel to the very _large_ moose, and back. “It’s edible, isn’t it? Or was there some kind of remarkably moose-like demon prowling the forests?”

He wonders, briefly, if there’s a song there. 

_The Moosebeast of the Kaedwen Mountains/ is fierce and large indeed…_

And then his stomach rumbles. 

“It’s going to rain.” Lambert gripes. 

Geralt makes the particular grunt that Jaskier understands to mean _yes_ and also _fuck._

“Is the kitchen leaking?”

“It’s been nigh on seventy years since anyone’s been _in_ there.” Vesemir says, running fingers through his beard. “Not since the raids. The Wives run the kitchens, decide who comes and goes.”

“Do you eat your meat _raw_?” 

“No. We cook rough, same as on the Path.” The older man looks at him as if he may be slightly impaired. 

“So for the last _seventy years_ you have not set foot in _your only kitchen_?”

Lambert shrugs. “It wasn’t ours to touch.” 

“ _It’s in your keep._ ”

“So’s the fucking solar!” 

“ _You don’t need a sitting room to survive._ ”

Lambert goes very still, eyes fixed _through_ Jaskier. “So you say.” He rasps, and stalks off.

“I’ve missed something important.” Jaskier whispers, feeling something _squeeze_ in his chest. “What is it?”

“There were a few rooms that were just for our Mothers.” Eskel says softly. “They’d let us in the kitchens to help, but we were always supervised. It was theirs. And the solar…”

“Used to sit for _hours_ in the solar.” Geralt rests a hand on his shoulder, a comforting weight even through so much fabric. “You could always find someone there to hold you, or tell you a story. Mother Vera taught me how to braid my hair…”

“ _Fuck_.” Says Jaskier. “I need to see the kitchens.”




Once, Jaskier thought the kitchens at the Lettenhove estate were impressive, fashioned of wood and stone with long benches to accommodate a staff of two cooks and a dozen maids, and a hearth large enough to fit at least five naughty children—or so Nan said. Natural light spilled in through high windows, gleaming against copper pots and bubbling cauldrons. People bustled about, butchering meat and shaping sugar into decadent masterpieces. 

He often snuck down just to tuck himself into a corner and compose with visions of honeycomb ghosting across his tongue. 

The kitchens of Kaer Morhen are lifeless and dim, grey light leaking in from the outside...but he can _see_ where life used to be. 

There are several hearths, each massive, with hooks for cauldrons and various tools. Grates, griddle tops, and a great hulking oven. You could feed an _army_ in here—and that’s exactly what the Mothers _did._

Eskel told him some days ago that the eighty-some Witchers that have arrived haven’t even left the school _half-_ filled. 

The floor is marked—not worn down, per se, but clearly marked by the passage of many feet. The stones are smooth. 

In the doorway, there are markings with children’s names beside them. Jaskier sees _brave lambert, 9_ , and the ache starts up in his chest again. They lived here, relished in being _invited_ here. 

There are countertops once used for kneading bread and decorating tarts and setting children up high to tend scraped knees, no doubt. He can almost hear the brush of long skirts over the floor. 

Where they _aren’t_ anymore. 

Haven’t been for decades. 

“So. It’s _me,_ now. I’m in charge of all this. ...Well, that’s a terrible idea. I’m shit at cooking.” 

Eskel and Geralt are both eager to get started clearing away cobwebs and lighting fires. Vesemir places a kiss to the top of his head, mercifully sans hat, and says, “We’ll need to do something about the knives.”

There’s a soft clearing of the throat from the door at the opposite end of the kitchens. Stefan—a Crane, Jaskier remembers—stands waiting for permission. “Żona Jaskier, Lambert told us you might have need.”

His eyes flicker in the dimmed light, and Jaskier tries not to think of _demonic contracts._ They really do speak like wealthy cloth merchants.

“Did he _say_ that, or are you extrapolating?”

Stefan smiles, and Jaskier hears a few of his brothers chuckling from the hallway. “We have knives unspoiled by rust and age.”

“Oh! Good, yes!” He claps his hands together, “Come in, then. That’s fair admission for this disaster. _Certainly_ give me knives.”

The group of them is quick to disperse about the kitchens, making themselves useful as Stefan produces a truly _impressive_ assortment of sharp objects. One rather resembles a serrated pitchfork for tiny imps. 

He pokes at it dubiously.

Vesemir grunts, dropping a dish in the sink. “Stop that. You’re a wandering bard. You fed yourself well enough, between towns.”

“I caught _rabbits._ If I was _lucky,_ which I usually was _not._ ” 

(Geralt makes a very _sad_ noise from his post half-inside the oven.)

“ _And that is not a rabbit._ ” He jacks a thumb at the _whole entire moose_ on the butcher’s table. 

Guiles lifts a hand, like a child volunteering. “Any among us would serve well enough, but Gerd would treasure the opportunity.”

“Which one of you is Gerd, again?”

“He’s the Bear.” Eskel reminds him. 

The sound of Geralt’s snort _echoes_ before he finally extracts himself. His hair is caked in ash and gods only know what else, but he’s _smiling_. “I can fetch him.”

“Duck your head in a stream while you’re at it.” Vesemir huffs, waving his student off. “There, we’ll skin the beast.”

Jaskier rests his hands on his hips. “And put it on the spit? Turn it? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m built like an anaemic weasel.”

(The handful of Cranes seem genuinely content to watch this play out.) 

“We’ll do as you direct us, but we’d appreciate it if you’d _try._ ” 

Try. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath, centering himself under the weight of so many eyes. He can do this. He’s great with crowds— _loves_ them. If he can keep a band of drunken Skelligens content, he can figure out how to properly season…

His gaze catches on what had _seemed_ like a few dusty bricks on a shelf beside the oven: _books._ He tugs one down, jostling the thick coat settled on the edge and spine, and another, slimmer volume comes down with it. 

A book of handwritten recipes, yellowed but intact, and what appears to be a journal with a dozing rabbit embossed in the buttery leather cover. He tucks his find out of the way—better to investigate with clean hands and a bit of quiet—and cracks open the recipe book. 

There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. It’s separated neither by course or content—but there is a great deal of annotation in various hands. Some are easier to read than others. One or two were apparently added in by children, regarding their strong approval. 

(In one blocky scribble: _nO MORE SPINECH PLEES - G._ and then, neater, but not by much: _Talk to Geralt about nutrition, Alma, you’re good with such things. - Omar, defeated.)_

Finally, he lands on a proper recipe for roast _barghest_ , which is probably close enough and at the very least probably won’t kill them. And he _does_ recall the cooks stuffing various birds and beasts with herbs and vegetables before applying a rub to the outside. 

“All right. This seems simple enough. Do we have any spices?”

“We’re _paid_ with them often enough.” Stefan says, “They’d be in the pantry.” The man _lifts his head to sniff_ before Eskel pulls open the door to an entire _room_ Jaskier hadn’t noticed. 

A quick glance inside reveals various jars and sacks, and some very large, very ominous-looking containers that he’s not quite brave enough to disturb. 

“I’ll need the ones on this list.” Jaskier presents the page, tapping a finger against the Ingredients column. “Also vegetables.”

“Geralt hates—”

“Spinach, I know.” He leans up on his toes to investigate a curious purple pot, apparently marked in runes. Not touching _that_. “Poor Omar. Vegetables, please. Onions, garlic, some herbs wouldn’t hurt. Potatoes. I’ve seen you lot eat.”

He tries _not_ to scream when he pops back out of the pantry and finds Gerd, smiling, holding up the moose head and looking rather proud of himself. “Fine enough for your rooms, Żona?”

“Eep.”

“We’ll find a place for it, Gerd. Thank you.” Eskel smiles. 

Jaskier _looks_ at him, and Eskel mouths, S A Y T H A N K Y O U.

He huffs. “Very nice beheading, Gerd. Very...clean. So, moose?”

“So, moose.” Gerd laughs, and sets about butchering the _rest_ of Jaskier’s new wall hanging. 

They all settle into their tasks, and Jaskier takes up the journal again.

+

He sits, half in the pantry, listening to the sounds of the Witchers barking back and forth, restoring their kitchen— _his kitchen, gods_ —to its proper order. He can _feel_ contentment buzzing in the air. They’ve been waiting a long time for this. 

He runs his fingers over the soft leather of the cover before gently tipping it open. The pages are smooth, and the handwriting within flowing and delicate, not unlike his mother’s.

Some pages are filled with writing, some broken up with illustrations crude and detailed, in turn. Some of the crude depictions are signed—one of them in a blocky scrawl he recognizes from the cookbook. 

All of the entries are signed _—Is._

For a moment, he thinks he can feel a woman’s touch on the back of his hand. 

He takes a deep breath, wrapping himself in the scents of spices, of a home that’s _his_ now, his predecessor’s entire _life_ here open in his lap. He turns the page, and a neat square of paper slips from where it was stuck in the spine. 

Another recipe, jotted down hastily, as if by ear. Followed by a note crammed in at the end: 

_Honeycakes_

_The recipe is so simple, but I always forget!_

_Elgar helped me make a batch yesterday, and Lambert stuffed them in his pockets and_ **ran** , _the little mongoose._

_Well._ Jaskier thinks. _It’s as good a thing to try as any._

-

Plates have been passed about, and the Witchers seem pleased enough, rosy cheeked and smiling. Many of them glance around, as if this is a new and entirely magical experience—to be together here, after so long. 

There’s an odd sort of music in the scraping of forks and soft conversation. 

And then Lambert shuffles in, thunder clouds still passing behind his face, like he’s brought them in from outside. The turn of his lip is grim. Sad. 

Jaskier takes the bundle he’s been saving and wraps his husband’s hands around it. “It’s for you.” He says, pressing a kiss to that sinking corner. “I’ll do the solar next.” 

Lambert lifts the cloth away, revealing a generous bundle of golden honey cakes, still warm from the oven. 

“Geralt says they’re too sticky, but I only added a little honey at the end. It didn’t seem sweet enough.”

For a moment, Lambert is very quiet. 

Then, he sets the bundle aside and cradles Jaskier’s face between his palms. “It’s plenty sweet.”

His mouth tastes like honey. 

-

That night, once everyone is sated, settled, and (for the most part) asleep, Jaskier goes to slip the journal in with his stack of borrowed filth (and a few treatises on poetry, because Cöen is, if not a gentleman, not a complete degenerate.)

His curiosity is stirred again when he spots a scrap of paper sticking out. There are a great many treasures within this woman’s book, and he hopes she doesn’t mind sharing them. 

He curls up on cool stone and thumbs the journal open again, if only to tuck the note back inside before returning to the nest. 

But it’s _music_. 

Roughly sketched out, but the staff is there, and the notes are hastily scribbled upon it. Where there should be words written, there are runes. 

He tries to put the sound of it together in his head, and something curls in his stomach. _Powerful,_ he thinks. 

Ruinous. 

His fingers are already shaping themselves over invisible strings as he reads on. Just a little while longer. 

-

_I worry for Vesemir._

_I think the Path has changed him too much. He tells the boys that love lives here, but it grows harder and harder for him to leave misery out there. I think sometimes he revels in it._

_I wish only to be his kindness._

_\- Is_

_-_

A few pages later…  
  


_The boy from the mountains has been asking for his mother less and less. Soren said it may be easier to tell him of her fate, that it would quiet him. Fear is a poor nursemaid, and Jann is not yet too old for comfort._

_No one ever truly is._

_He asks to help me with the sick, and insists that he is unafraid. I think it’s more to do with his being_ kind. _He takes my hand when I falter. I am glad to have him._

_\- Is_

_My Jann of the Mountains has shown a knack for magic tricks. I asked if he should like to be a sorcerer, and he stuck his tongue out at me, the little cheek!_

_Vesemir says that he will be gifted with the Signs._

_I say that he is himself a gift, and he turns pink. Geralt assures him that I am right._

_I have decided to call him Eskel._

_\- Is_

Jaskier lifts the back cover up, letting more pages flutter by like hummingbird wings, smiling softly. 

Stops.

**_I fucking hate the smell of mint._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's worth noting that, as we were writing this, Weary suggested a very 'wealthy merchant' speech pattern for the Cranes.  
> And I, having never actually played Skyrim, said, "Khajiit has wares if you have coin" and now we say it every time the Cranes show up. It is Tradition. Just wanted to share that information.


	6. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I fucking hate the smell of mint._
> 
> -
> 
> Jaskier finds out exactly why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obligated to hand you a helmet at this point. 
> 
> I'm not going to, but I feel obligated to. Please be aware that this chapter is both plot-heavy and full of unfortunately canon-typical references. They are not happy ones.  
> There is a brief mention of suicide, and harm to children. The trials are _ugly_ , and we will be going into some detail.
> 
> If you need an emotional palate cleanser, I've started posting White Honey clinic: [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368013/chapters/61510270)
> 
> Take care.
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> \- 
> 
> I've hurt myself writing this. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Weary
> 
> -
> 
> I take credit for adding The Amazing Devil, and I have no regrets.
> 
> \- Messenger

Witchers, as it turns out, are _meticulous_ about keeping records. 

The library is the largest he’s ever _seen_ , alcoves full of bestiaries, grimoires, and all manner of books dedicated to preserving the knowledge necessary to sort man and beast into some semblance of order. 

Dragons, kikimora, basilisks, and bruxa. If it killed and _could_ be killed, they had its number here. Occasionally, smooth rows of books are broken by some bit of monster viscera in a jar. 

His eyes trail downward, perhaps to put the unpleasantness from his mind, and glimpses a few old tomes of fairy tales on the lower shelves and thinks, _Oh. For the children._

_There were children here._

Once, anyway.

He can picture them now, tucked between stacks of then more vibrantly colored tomes, eyes lit up as they read about princesses rescued by handsome knights or a daring adventurer riddling with a Sphynx. 

They grew up here, learning not that dragons _existed,_ but that they could be _killed_. And then they set out to do the killing themselves.

When did they _become_ the dragons?

He looks back into the main room, back past the gate sectioning the alcove off from the damaging light of the sun. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there’s a pile—almost as if they’ve half-built a bonfire. Broken desks, a few once-comfortable chairs— 

All of the furniture, stacked together haphazardly.

Like a barricade.

It’s a broken barricade. 

There are scorch marks on the floor—he can _see_ them now. Deep gouges in the stone where there was a struggle. 

There _is_ one corner that seems better kept than the rest. The furniture has been replaced with a single table and a handful of chairs near the window. A comfortable winged armchair sits next to the hearth. The table is littered with open books and half-burnt candles, and there’s a ratty blanket tossed over the back of the armchair. Jaskier has a few guesses as to who frequents it. 

_They still_ use _this room. They just walk past the barricade to do it._

He didn’t _know_ these people and there’s a burning weight inside his chest. 

_Women and children,_ He remembers. _Women and children behind the barricade._

_Melitele’s tits._

First thing tomorrow he’s getting every damned Witcher in the keep to come and clear this out. Enough is _enough_.

“Came to find a book to read. _Fuck_.” He turns back to the nearest alcove, and closes the gate, ineffectively, behind him. 

-

Here and there, between the shelves, there are countless places to secret away various items—sweets or small treasures, the occasional note, some written in plain ink and others—revealed by candlelight—in lemon juice. Children mastering encoded writing with stinging cuts. 

The shelf to his left has one such cubby. 

He reaches inside and comes up with a small, crumpled bit of parchment. The ink is faded, but the shaky hasty scrawl is still visible. 

_Can’t meet to pick wildberries today. Mamma Isolde says we’re to stay inside. There are men below the mountain. - Hesten_

This was written _right before…_

He slips it back inside the cubby. 

_Damn it._

He continues his search, determined, for the moment, not to go poking around for more heartbreak. A red leather spine catches his eye, and he stops. There’s no label to be found, but the pages are gilded, and there are charts inside. The handwriting inside is neat, but varied—multiple people have been charged with making entries. 

He stops on a page with a spatter of ink—someone’s hand slipped. A hastily torn piece of parchment is folded and shoved into the spine. 

On the page itself, names are listed:

 _Bronvat, 14_ \- Grasses

 _Kyrn, 15 -_ Grasses

 _Asot, 14_ \- Dreams 

_Rugread…_

It continues down the page— _Grasses, Dreams, Mountain—_ and then, abruptly, _suicide._

That’s where the spatter is. That’s where…

This is a death ledger. 

His skin feels suddenly, impossibly cold. He reaches for the note. 

The first hand matches the writing on the page: 

_I can’t lose another, Guzol. How have you done for so long, knowing they’ll die?_

_— Heron_

The answer is written in a firmer hand, but no less heartbreaking. 

_That’s what you bring to the Howling._

_You take that and you sing for every single name. We guide them to their sleep. It is_ ** _our_** _trial._

 _— Guzol_

The wives took down these names. They gathered up the dead, laid them to rest gods knew where, and then they wrote down who and how old and _how it happened._ A tidy collection of dead children, jotted down in ink. 

But that still leaves him with questions:

What is a Howling? 

How are _Grasses, Dreams, and Mountain_ a cause of death?

He shoves the book back onto the shelf. He doesn’t want to touch it again. 

_But I’ll have to, won’t I?_ He realizes, his insides cool and blank. _If they find another child._

Jaskier ventures further into the alcove, looking for a place to sit where he doesn’t have to stare at that _gods damned barricade._

He settles on a bench built into the back, letting his hands drift over the stone as he gathers his wits, singing under his breath. 

_You’re the daughter of silent watching stones._ _  
_ _You watch the stars hurl all...their fundaments_ _  
_ _In wonderment, at you and yours, forever asking…_

His hand catches on something, and there’s a grating sound. What appeared to be a bit of uneven stone slides free, a drawer large enough to conceal a small roll of parchment. 

_Vesemir, you naughty thing, I know you’ve been reading my journal._ _  
_ _I’ve tucked it away where you can’t possibly sneak it. —Is_

Jaskier recalls, _Mamma Isolde says we’re to stay inside._

The journal in the kitchens, where only Wives may go, also signed - _Is._

There’s a great deal here he’s still yet to learn. 

It’s time to do some reading. 

-

It feels as if it’s been a very long day, despite being fairly early yet. The Witchers continue their given tasks, some training in the yard, others bustling about deeper in the keep. 

He remains unbothered as he makes his way back to the nest—functionally, the room is as much his as it is anyone’s—and pulls out Isolde’s journal. 

_I fucking hate the smell of mint._

He wants to know, he _has_ to know. The history of this place is twined inextricably and oft unwittingly with the rest of his _life_. 

But he can start gently, and have mercy on himself. 

_Our Morgan is a songbird. She’s found an old lyre in the vaults, and while the initial racket seemed to irk the husbands a bit, she’s improved drastically in very little time. I think in another world, she would have been a bard._

_She’s taken to following Geralt about, shy thing that he is. He’s not much used to people yet, but I’ve heard him singing. He needs to be bullied to it less and less._

_These children keep the spring and summer lively._

_\- Is_

Another page reveals a drawing of a very unfortunate cat. 

At least, he thinks it’s a cat. ‘ mee e’ is written next to in a tiny, tiny hand.

_  
The children have got their hands on a book about some gentleman thief, and have resolved to be noble bandits. Huin told them they’re a bunch of lazy shits, and insists they learn to earn honest coin first._

_It would be funny if it weren’t for the constant sound of bells in the halls._

_\- Is_

Scribbled in shortly after— 

_They’ve come to the bit where he ravishes a maiden fair, and suddenly none of them want any part of it. Little devils. Raivis nearly pissed himself when he found them all gagging and retching at each other._

And then— 

_Leggy Melitele—Morgan’s come to me complaining. The boys have found out one day_ she’ll _be a maiden fair. She insists this isn’t true at all. She’ll have a big ugly battle scar on her face. ‘From an axe or something_ _wicked_ _.’_

_These bloody children._

He smiles, takes a deep breath, and flips forward.

_Vesemir hasn’t let me be these past few days. He started with flowers, bless him, and proceeded to hoisting my skirts in the bloody cellar to eat me out. I won’t deny that I love the attentions—I could never tell him no. He loves me fiercely, and it’s impossible not to return such love._

_But I know why he’s doing this._

_The time of the Grasses is coming._

_We need to vote._

_-  
  
_

There’s a note tucked in with a recipe for what appears

to be a medicine for an antiemetic. He sees the scratch of a harsh hand on 

_Mint._

_  
  
_

_-_

_I so desperately want to keep Eskel here with me._

_He’s a tender soul, with so much patience for the world. I could use his confidence to cheer me in the long summers, and to tend the sick in the coming times._

_But Geralt will be leaving. I know it. There’s no keeping that boy from the Path. He’s the strongest among the recruits, and there’s whispers already of new tests to place before him. His mother was a witch, they say, and the power runs in the blood._

_I want them to know that he is good and noble, and burning in his own skin to get out there and save people he does not know. And there’s no way in hell Eskel won’t be right behind him, sword in hand. Those boys will damn themselves to save the world, every time._

_He would be a kind and patient hand, as a Wife. But that’s no reason he can’t be a damned good Witcher._

_And Lambert will throw himself right after, when his Trials come._

_These fucking boys._

_\- Is_

_Five died today. We don’t usually lose so many so early._

_Lambert’s asking for Morgan, but she doesn’t remember him._

_Eskel’s vomiting so badly it’s a struggle to get him to keep any tinctures down. He’ll take more poisons tomorrow, and smile, and ask for more ‘magic medicine.’_

_He shouldn’t be worried about me._

_\- Is_

_Piotr has asked me to give him to the Mountain. I would rather cut his throat myself._

A scream coils in Jaskier’s throat when he comes to the next entry. 

~~_Geralt—_ ~~

The name is horribly blotted. Scratched out. She tries again. 

_  
They’ve taken Geralt for more trials. That smug bitch of a mage—Lior—she threw my words right back at me. ‘Didn’t you say he was strong? The best of them? Don’t you believe in your little hero?’_

_They took him from me. He’s been through it once. Isn’t that enough? To survive it and be dragged back to suffer again. It’s unfair. It’s cheating._

_Eskel looked for him. He couldn’t move, but he looked, and he knew Geralt wasn’t there. I had to tell him his brother isn’t dead, just suffering all over again._

_And they want to do it again._

_All I can do is hold him and pray while he screams and begs me not to be scared. I wish I wasn’t. I have no right to be, now._

_I need to talk to Vesemir._

_I can’t do this again. No more._

_-_

Whatever these people were doing up here, it killed the children. 

And they did it to Geralt, _at least three times._

Jaskier wants to be sick. 

**_I don’t fucking want to sing._ **

  
-

Jaskier knows the feeling. 

He itches to throw the book away from himself, but files it away neatly instead. He may still need it. There’s plenty more he hasn’t seen. 

He pauses at his pack on the way to the door, searching for and finding a rose balm he’s only recently made up. _Geralt’s lips are chapped. He’ll like it._

Then— 

_Anything but mint._

He’ll find Vesemir later. 

-

Jaskier doesn’t know the proper, traditional way to steal his husbands away from their daily obligations, but a gentle hand to the chest or arm and a soft ‘ _please’_ seems to do the trick well enough. 

Lambert, for all his snap and bluster, is empathetic enough to pull him immediately into his arms and _squeeze_ before obediently following along. It dulls the hollow burn, just a little. 

Eskel and Geralt are together, which helps a little more. It’s good, and they’re eager to go with him. 

So they weave in and out of each other, buried in furs and silks and sweat, and Jaskier lets them take him apart. 

He can focus on this— 

On the feeling of Geralt rocking inside him, eager to please and so thoughtfully quiet.

On Eskel, pressed beside him, plucking at his peaked nipples and smiling against his lips. 

On Lambert, eager to swallow his cock. To keep himself quiet. 

All of them, alive.

-

He gentles them, after. 

Soft words and quiet humming. Eskel and Lambert fall asleep soon enough, safe and sound, but Geralt will always be the one to keep vigil over the others. 

Jaskier runs the briefest hint of nails over his arms. 

“I have a present for you.” He says. 

“Me?” Geralt frowns. 

“Your lips are chapped from the cold.”

Geralt touches his lip, seeking out damaged flesh. “It bothers you.”

“No.” Jaskier says. “I wanted to take care of you.”

He produces the tin with the barest flourish and dabs some onto his finger before applying it. 

“Completely altruistic.” Geralt snorts, but his lips curl into a little smirk. 

“It will never take much to get me to kiss you.”

And he proves it. 

\- 

Jaskier knows, by now, that Kaer Morhen is safe. Or at least that any theoretical ghosts would likely be on _his_ side.

He’s been on enough late night jaunts through castles and estates, stealing under suspicious eyes all in the name of a bit of _fun._ This is something completely different. 

He’s under no illusion that Vesemir will not hear him coming.

 _Good._

-

The only light in Vesemir’s office is coming from the fireplace, but his eyes glow in the darkness. 

“Our lark is up late.”

“You’re forthcoming with pet names, but very little else. Have you noticed that?”

“Something bothers you, then.” The _again_ goes unsaid. Vesemir already sounds exhausted by the conversation. 

And that? 

Is _infuriating._

“I came up this mountain, and I agreed to stay. Part of the blame is mine, for what little choice I had in the matter. But you _promised_ that you would tell me all I needed to know.”

“We have—”

“You gave a pretty speech, gave me a hand job, and left out _yet more important information._ ”

“You didn’t complain when—” 

“ _I’m fucking complaining now._ ”

There’s a change in Vesemir’s eyes. Jaskier’s night vision isn’t the best, but he can see the man shifting in his chair. 

He’s realized that this is an argument. 

Vesemir is an accomplished warrior. All Witchers are—it’s the entire job description. And while it does _help_ for them to be quick-thinking and gifted with some modicum of common sense, they were not _born and bred_ to argue. 

Jaskier was raised on enough petty bullshit to choke a farmer. 

It’s funny when ‘breeding’ finally comes in handy. 

Vesemir growls. “What are you after?”

“The knowledge you owe me. You made me your wife, you tell me what that means. Sleeping with all of you, that’s obvious. Your interview process is _staggeringly_ simple. The brand, I should have been warned.”

Vesemir huffs. 

“There are rooms here that are the sole dominion _of_ a group of people who, for the last _seven decades_ did not exist. You’ve not cooked a meal inside _since_. So we cleaned, of course.”

He takes a deep breath. “So—cooking, cleaning, cocksucking. Vulgar, maybe, but simple. Things one might expect from a ‘wife.’ You told me that there were children here and I thought, _Oh, of course._ You raised little Witchers. A veritable murderous nursery. So of course they took care of them, as any mother does. Tended to them, watched them grow, had hopes and dreams for them, even. _Little Lambert, he’ll be a heartbreaker one day._ ” 

Even as he affects a higher pitch, he hears the creak of the chair under Vesemir’s tightening grip. So he has some idea where this is going. 

“I’ve heard of mothers going to truly _extraordinary_ lengths for their children. Gods know _mine_ didn’t, but one can only expect so much from a woman who’s had five children and no orgasms. But she _wouldn’t have watched me die. Especially_ not if she could see it coming.” 

Vesemir’s teeth are a wet slash in the darkness. 

Not a smile.

“ _Every. Damn. Year._ ”

The rumble is low in the dark, almost as if it’s coming from all around him. “How would you know _that_?”

“Isolde told me.”

He notices the displacement of air before he realizes that Vesemir is grasping him by the arms. “You found her journal.”

“You’re hurting me.”

But Vesemir doesn’t _stop._ If Jaskier thought his eyes were glowing before, they’re outright _burning_ now. 

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

“ _What_?”

“I told you _no_ . We’ve had this conversation. _Let go_ of me.”

Vesemir hesitates for longer than Jaskier likes before releasing his grip. His hands fall away in the dim. 

“If you won’t tell me what the hell is happening here, then she will. She _would_ have, wouldn’t she? She’d have told me to get the fuck out.”

“She knew how things were done. She accepted—”

“ _That’s not what she wrote._ ”

Vesemir’s teeth click as he shuts his mouth. 

“How many trials did you put Geralt through? How many of those fucking mint tinctures? _She_ threw up, did you know that? Whenever she smelled it. Started gagging. Death smelled like _mint_.”

More nothing.

“What the _fuck_ are the Dreams and the Grasses? Why would a child want to be given to the mountain, and why would _asking that_ make his mother slit his _throat?_ ”

Another choked growling noise. 

“You promised that you would tell me. You said that it was hard, losing your wives and children in the raids. But it wasn’t _just_ the raids. You were killing children _long_ before that.”

“Things have _always_ been done this way. To become a Witcher, the initiates must pass the Trials. The world needs Witchers. This is the price.”

“And how many of you _have_ survived? How many are left? Because from where I’m standing, in a broken down keep full of _shit_ memories and _shit_ practices, _tradition doesn’t seem to be working._ ”

“They did. Once.”

“And then not at all. She _still_ wouldn’t want you to have that book.”

Jaskier leaves before Vesemir can say a thing more.

His trip back to the nest is much quicker. He’s learning the way quickly, for all that he’s navigating a graveyard. 

But he doesn’t worry that Vesemir will follow him. He’ll be too busy letting their conversation fester in his gut.

_It grows harder and harder for him to leave misery out there. I think sometimes he revels in it._

And he has been, hasn’t he?

He turns his chair to face the broken, rotting vestiges of a massacre. Leaves scattered detritus from lives long abandoned where they fell. Steps over the ashes. 

This place is built on pain— _that_ was their tradition. It was as things had always been when Vesemir, the sole survivor, woke amidst the corpses and began, alone, to drag them from the keep. 

Tomorrow, Jaskier intends to begin laying them to rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \
> 
> \- Love and kidney punches,  
> Elpie
> 
> The song lyrics are from [The Horror and the Wild.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4h-ogX4GfL8)


	7. Therapy, Or Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the best therapy you can get is a bonfire. 
> 
> -
> 
> Jaskier starts the healing process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, I won the chapter title fight. I threatened everyone. 
> 
> I quit my job today, so I'm having a mild existential crisis, and _you_ are getting an early short update. The next chapter is _significantly longer._ My shop is up and running. I'm ready to fight three wargs. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH.  
>   
> ᴾˡᵉᵃˢᵉ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ
> 
> It is _very important_ that you click the ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ when you see it, because I spent roughly an hour on voice chat making incomprehensible viking dirge noises trying to get across the vibe I was going for, while Weary and Ducky tried _very hard_ to help. The answer was, unfortunately, not 'Gregorian chanting' but is it really monk-authentic anymore if there are lighting cues and pyrotechnics?
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> -
> 
> Elpie has has a bad day and I've had a bad week. Hope you're have a better one.
> 
> \- Weary
> 
> -
> 
> Remember that grief is not a weakness, and neither is depression. You are strong and you are loved. Not my usual note but I think sometimes people need to hear it.
> 
> \- Ducky

Jaskier has been accustomed to being an oddity since childhood. The adults had found it charming, at first, that he would sing and dance for attention. 

Until it stopped being charming and turned into a career. 

Rarely, outside of Oxenfurt, have people _listened_ to him without some argument. At Oxenfurt especially, there always seemed to be _someone_ with an argument. 

If any of the other professors heard that he had a cadre of _Witchers_ carrying out his directives, there would be a panic, followed by a staff meeting, followed by another very long, very disappointing conversation with the Dean. 

But here, he is alone with his husbands and their brothers, and it is now his job to see that they’re all properly cared for. 

So after breakfast in the Great Hall, during which Vesemir is suspiciously absent, Jaskier stands up on the bench. 

He wobbles for a moment and shoots Lambert a bright smile when he braces him by the thigh. “Thank you, love.”

Lambert looks delighted, which is an expression everyone in this disaster of a hall deserves to wear. His heart feels just a bit lighter. 

“I thought I would ask you lovely people—”

Generalized snickering. 

“For a bit of help.”

“Are you paying?” Nuka teases. 

Zigor elbows her. “What do you need, Żona?”

“So far, we’ve managed to clean up the kitchens and the solar—both important projects. But there’s still the rest of the keep to work on. Especially…”

“The library.” Eskel says. “You went to the library.”

“Yes.” 

Lambert’s fingers tighten on his thigh, and Jaskier places a gentle hand over them, eyes fixed on the other tables. 

“You should be able to use the resources you have without tripping over gravestones. That’s all. I’ll be working on that, today, and I hope you’ll join me.”

He is not expecting an unanimous agreement.

It’s heartening. 

-

Half of the assembled Witchers accompany him up to the library, while the others make their way out to the yard. They’ll split the work evenly, this way. It’s practical. 

He knows better than to question the claim. Not everyone is comfortable with the lingering dead. 

With forty or so Witchers occupying the space, there should be _some_ noise, _some_ conversation. Instead, there’s an eerie quiet as Jaskier takes up a rag and goes to clean the windows before propping them open. 

It’s all they _let_ him do. 

He goes to pick up a broken chair and five different people whine ‘ _Żona’_ like he’s a child trying to hoist his father’s sword. 

Gods forbid the decaying wood be too heavy, or worse—give him a _splinter._

They didn’t mind searing the school _mascot_ into his backside, but logic is ephemeral. 

“Even broken furniture’s heavy.” Geralt says, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “And it’s important that we do this.”

“Right.” Jaskier nods. “That’s right.”

A little quirk of the lips. “You’ll want to move out of the way.”

Gerd presses a broom into his hands and gives him a quick pat on the shoulder before slamming his arm down into what _was_ a mostly-intact oak table. It breaks into much more convenient pieces, which he and a few Manticores toss out one of the windows. 

Jaskier busies himself, content enough with letting the locals engage themselves in catharsis when he hears a sniffling noise. If _he’s_ managed to hear it, then there’s no way anyone else missed it...but no one else looks over. 

A quick survey reveals no shortage of dampened eyes and grim-set mouths, but he _is_ surprised to see Lambert dashing his sleeve against his eyes. 

_Ah._

Jaskier takes a quiet breath, and opens his mouth to sing. 

_“Call up your men, dilly dilly,_ _  
_ _Send them to work._ _  
_ _Some to the plow, dilly dilly,_ _  
_ _Some to the fork._ _  
_ _Some to make hay, dilly dilly,_ _  
_ _Some to cut corn._ _  
_ _While you and I, dilly dilly,_ _  
_ _Keep ourselves warm._ ”

He’s glad to hear Lambert’s snort, when it comes. “If fucking bluebirds come to his aid, I quit.”

It’s a bizarre feeling, almost like pride. They say Witchers are incapable of mustering tears, and Jaskier is gratified to know that this, like so many other tales, is utter bullshit. 

Chill air spills in through the open windows, but there’s a warm feeling in his chest as he spots more and more little smiles creeping in. 

Someone makes a joke, someone else laughs. 

Down below, those who could not bring themselves to enter the library shout back and forth as they pile bitter remnants up for burning. 

He reminds himself that only three of them called this keep home, before. Only three of them were intimately familiar with the ones who died here. 

But it’s a song each and every person here knows far too well. 

He’s performed at more than one wake, but here the quiet itself is rewarding. 

Right up until…

“What the _fuck_ is going on here?!”

Jaskier sets the broom aside. He vaguely remembers one of his brothers trying to teach him how to _brawl_ properly after another drunken foray into town, remembers ‘ _find the nearest weapon’_ and thinks, _Right,_ you _fight a bear with a candlestick._

Vesemir certainly looks ready to charge. 

“Cleaning. That _is_ part of my job, isn’t it?”

“‘Your job.’” Vesemir growls, “Is not to be a pain in my ass.”

Eskel frowns. “He’s helping!”

“He’s _destroying—_ ”

“Rotten wood. Broken furniture. There are no _people_ here to mourn.”

“What the _fuck_ do you know?!” 

“I know that what you’re doing isn’t healthy. I know it isn’t _helping_ you, or anyone else here.”

“What you are doing _now_ is not helping me!”

“Then what _would_?!”

“You learning your place!”

There’s a cracking noise. Geralt’s split the candelabra he was holding. Lambert places a hand to his chest to keep him still.

“It would be _wonderful_ if someone here could teach me that. But from the little I’ve been able to gather myself, _my_ job is to make sure everyone in this damned keep is safe and cared for.”

“You’re ill-suited to it.”

“That’s not what you said with your _cock_ in my ass.”

“If you were any _good_ at your job, you wouldn’t have been alone on that mountain!”

Jaskier goes quiet. 

“How _dare_ you touch these things?”

Nothing. 

“Boy—”

Nothing at all. Jaskier side-steps the older Witcher and makes his way down the stairs. 

There’s no rotten myth about bards being unable to cry. 

That doesn’t mean he wants anyone to see it. 

-

Jaskier would dearly like to curl up and hide in the nest, as he would in his rooms back home. Cover himself in blankets and pretend to be asleep when Nan came to check on him. 

But he’s not a little boy anymore—he’s a married man, in fact, and he has too much energy to cocoon himself away. Instead, he starts folding things, feeds the fire, busies himself with small, ultimately inconsequential tasks. 

Now and then, he bounces on his feet, as if he might force more of the energy out, and the hurt along with it. 

He’s been told worse by people who’ve known him better. 

But never while he was trying to help them. 

_You knew he’d be angry._

All right, yes. But still… 

“He’ll thank you later.” Geralt says. He stands in the doorway, hesitating for just a moment before stepping into the room. “He’ll—” 

“Handle this himself.” Jaskier cuts him off. “I left because an argument wouldn’t have helped.” 

He reaches out to take Jaskier’s hand, warm and soft. “But we’re not done.”

“What’s left?”

“The sun is setting, now. We thought—they died years ago, but no one ever sent them off. There was no one to sing.”

 _  
_ _We guide them to their sleep._

“The Howling? I found notes…”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know the words.”

“You will, and _only_ you will. You’ll teach the rest of us.”

Jaskier has no idea how, precisely, _that_ will work...but he believes it. 

He grabs his lute and follows.

-

###  [♩ ♪ ♫ ♬](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEizKmZlUAw)

Geralt leads him down to the courtyard, where the setting sun is casting long shadows over everyone and everything. 

The remains of the barricade have been arranged into a bonfire, along with some of the debris Jaskier recognizes from the Great Hall. A few long tables, and the _cages_.

 _Damn it,_ He thinks. _Damn them._

The raiders have been dead, no doubt, for years, but only now is their memory being burned away. They don’t deserve to stay here.  
  


_And let them leave_ _this place of welcome_ _  
__With the wolves at their heels._ _  
__Let them find no shelter in the arms of the mothers._ _  
__The children see only shadows, if there be shadows at all._  
  


The words don’t rhyme, as they form in his mind and curl between his lips and tongue. But this time he knows that there is no fixing them, nor any need to. 

A handful of Witchers have taken seats on the ground, and Jaskier realizes that they’ve taken up instruments. There are several drums, a tambourine, and Marten is testing the drag of a bow on a stringed instrument that Jaskier has never seen before. The body is small and boxy, resting in his lap, while the neck extends past his head, topped by a carved, snarling manticore. 

No doubt sensing his attention, the witcher looks up and offers him a smile. “You made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Jaskier replies, then turns to follow his white-haired husband to where Eskel and Lambert are waiting. 

They flank him as if by instinct, each reaching out for some small touch. He lets himself lean into it, but tenses when Vesemir emerges from the keep, helping Gerd carry the last of the ruin. 

_Helping._

Their eyes catch, and something searing and bright spreads through the bard’s chest and belly as they heave the last of it onto the pile. 

But Vesemir does not join the Wolves. 

He waits for a moment, unmoving, then lifts a hand, fingers splayed but for his bent index finger. 

_Igni._

The fire catches, and all falls silent. 

And then the drumming starts, a steady pulse, echoing far. 

Marten bows across the strings, shifting between long notes as if they were all the same. He glances up again, eyes bright and burning, and Jaskier feels his fingers move in concert. 

The Witchers all around him lift their voices in wordless vocalizations, harmonizing with each other easily. Only the sound matters, now. 

Only the words that will come to them. 

Only the wind that carries the dead on. 

Jaskier breathes in, and feels the mountain air burn through his lungs and heart. Opens his mouth, offers his prayers to a memory he can never truly share, and sings. 

His fingers play across the strings, even as many of those assembled fall to their knees. Even as Jerome begins to scream, throat raw and open, the sound cracking across the mountaintops.

His brothers hold him up.

Only four Witchers of the Wolf school remain, but many more are mourning. 

Humanity may never know what it _does_ to the ones that save it, but Jaskier does. And he sings of it until he tastes blood.

-

Geralt asks him that night, one broad hand over Jaskier’s soft throat, “Will you sing for me, when I die?”

“You ask as if I won’t be right there with you, screaming.” Jaskier rasps. 

“Don’t joke about that.” 

“Then don’t make me sing that song.”

Again, he waits until everyone is asleep before slipping off to Vesemir’s empty study. He only lingers for a moment, breathing in the cold air. 

On the desk, he leaves a journal with a dozing rabbit embossed on the cover. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music I ended up going with ended up being _exactly_ what I needed in more ways than one. 
> 
> I joke around about the title, and Jaskier getting the Witchers into therapy, but a lot of my aim as I write is to round them out as people, and work on their relationships. Vesemir's healing process is really beginning here. He's already taken a big step, and I hope everyone can _feel_ the breath I took as it all happened. 
> 
> Also the instrument Marten is playing is actually a horse-head fiddle, because we're all nerds for The Hu. 
> 
> The songs are Lyfjaberg (Healing-mountain) by Wardruna and Lavender's Blue, an English folk song. 
> 
> \- Elpie


	8. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be a good day. 
> 
> But first, Jaskier needs to talk to Vesemir. 
> 
> -
> 
> There are a lot of questions Jaskier still needs answers to. Maybe this time they won't hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 8, 'Communicating Like MF Adults for Mountain Hermits'
> 
> Y'all got even angrier at Vesemir than I anticipated. I really hope you enjoy this chapter--the interactions in it were very important to me. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> -
> 
> This chapter was so nice to write, I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> \- Weary

Jaskier does not see Vesemir the next morning at breakfast. He looks for him, but amidst the chaos of a hundred Witchers stuffing their faces with fresh-baked bread and moose sausage, he comes up empty. 

And then Lambert pantomimes something inappropriate with his sausage, and Jaskier has to convince Eskel to give it _back_ to him.

They’ve chores and training to attend to, today, and now that Jaskier is upright and mobile, he’s generally free to roam about the keep and get into whatever trouble he likes. 

So he lingers on the bench for a bit as the wolves kiss him good-bye and go about their duties, watching the others laughing and chattering amongst themselves. Stefan blatantly cheats at arm wrestling, and Gerd traps him in a headlock. Cöen sharpens one of his knives, a contented smile on his face. Jerome sits close by, nursing a mug of slippery elm tea, a bit of the tension gone from his shoulders.

The hall itself seems brighter, just a bit. 

It’s a good day.

It _will be_ a good day.

Jaskier gets up and goes about _his_ work.

-

Vesemir is in his study, curtains drawn and a single candle burning at his desk. It throws everything into strange shadows—the bundled herbs tacked to the wall, the strange keepsakes he’s accumulated over the years, and Vesemir himself, sat in a sturdy chair, watching him. 

If Jaskier weren’t looking for it, he’d miss the red rims of the Witcher’s eyes. 

Isolde’s journal is cradled in his hand. 

“Put that down.” Jaskier says.

Vesemir does. 

“Take my hand.”

Vesemir does.

Jaskier leads them down to the hot springs. 

-

Vesemir pauses as they enter the chamber, impressed at the collection of candles, bathing oils, soaps, and soft towels arranged neatly by one of the warm springs.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Jaskier shushes him, two fingers against his lips. “Get in.”

“You aren’t—?”

“I’m going to take care of you, because no one has done that in a very long time.” His blue eyes are steel in the torchlight. “Are you going to deny me what I ask?”

Vesemir shakes his head and begins efficiently stripping off his clothing as Jaskier goes to sit by the edge, shirtsleeves rolled up and gaze intent.

There’s no use lingering.

He wades into the pool, sighing at the warmth tugging at his bones, and crosses to the natural ledge where the bard awaits. He turns when Jaskier urges him to. Doesn’t bother biting down the sudden hiss when strong fingers work at the muscle of his shoulders.

“I hurt you.” He says. “Again. You shouldn’t waste these efforts on me.”

Jaskier’s fingers bite into the skin, tense. “Can you at least let me decide that for myself?”

Vesemir goes still, and then begins to slump.

“ _Don’t._ I know…” The bard sighs. “I know _why_ you said it. I’ve known enough broken people in my life to know that there is _always_ a reason. I’m not _stupid._ ”

The hands disappear, and the Witcher detects a faint _pop_ before the smell of oranges spills into the chamber. Soft lips rest on the crown of his head, only to be replaced by skilled fingers carding oil through his hair. 

“I owe you love, and I gave you trouble instead.” Vesemir sighs, leaning back into the touch. “You’ve given us more than we could have asked for, and I fucking squandered it.”

Jaskier _laughs_ behind him. “Do I have to explain this to you, too? My affection is not a finite resource. I’m not going to bolt because you said something shitty. I fully expect an _apology_ , but I won’t be run off like that. I’m your wife, aren’t I?” He pauses. “Eyes closed.”

Vesemir does as he’s told, letting the bard tilt his head back as warm water spills over his scalp.

It’s strange. 

He can remember gentle moments with Isolde, with Heron, with the rest of the Wolf Wives, but he can’t remember ever feeling so _unburdened_ by it. 

“I _am_ sorry. Hurting you didn’t make me hurt any less. But doing as you said…” He sighs, resting his head against the bard’s thigh. “It helped.”

“Sometimes I know what I’m talking about.” The answer would be petulant, were the tone not so warm, the fingers guiding his head up not so gentle, the lips on his not so soft. 

“Mmm. That you do.” Vesemir turns in the water, pressing against the edge of the pool, knees resting on the ledge. “Have the pups seen to you today?”

His fingers are already tangled in the laces of the bard’s trousers, and he can’t help but rumble happily when he notes a distinct lack of smalls. 

“Mmhm. Plugged up and everything. Help me get clean?”

“Soon enough, dove. Want to taste you first.”

Jaskier groans, lifting his hips so that Vesemir can slide his pants off. The older man slots back between his legs easy as breathing, calloused hands running up naked thighs before slipping them over his shoulders. 

“Didn’t think I could _be_ so lucky.” 

He blows gently at the hardening tip of the bard’s erection, happy to watch the man squirm before finally taking him into the wet heat of his mouth. 

_Sweet_ , He thinks as slim hips work helplessly, trying for more depth, more everything. He’s nervous to tangle his fingers in Vesemir’s hair, to drag him down and fuck his face. 

This can be learned. 

He drags the boy by his legs, leaving him half on the edge and half supported by Vesemir’s shoulders. Smooth palms slap against the stone floor as Jaskier falls back to support himself, whining high. 

Rough fingers trace over the wolf’s head branded into that ample backside before tracing down to the plug keeping him nice and full. Vesemir _hums_ as he toys with it, pulling and pushing in tiny increments, listening to the remains of the morning stirring inside his lover.

 _Beautiful._

“A- _ah!_ ” Jaskier gasps, trying and failing to work his hips, half-suspended. Vesemir pulls off to press a kiss to the head of his cock, working him harder with the plug, golden eyes _fixed_ on his face. 

“Doesn’t quite compare to a knot, does it?”

“Mm-mm.” Jaskier shakes his head. His breathing is already coming in quick pants. “Want yours.”

“But if I take this out, you’ll make a mess.” The Witcher teases, angling the toy to scrape against the place he knows it’s wanted _most_ before taking it away. 

“Good thing we’re in the bath _, Daddy_ **_._ **”

“Oh, you _little_ shit.” Vesemir bites down on his thigh and _yanks._

Jaskier yelps, and Vesemir sucks a bruise into the soft flesh before leaving off with a _pop._ He pushes two fingers into the bard’s ready hole and crooks them, coaxing a steady ooze of spend and slick onto the stone. 

“Oh, they _did_ take care of you, didn’t they? There’s so much. You’d be leaking all day.”

He means it to be a tease. He really does, but the idea is so fucking _hot_ his teeth ache. 

Jaskier laughs, a little breathless. “Who’s the one making the mess? Are you just going to leave me empty?”

“ _Never._ ” Vesemir growls, dragging those long legs to wrap about his waist as he rises on his knees. The position is _perfect,_ and he wastes no time slipping inside. “ _Fuck,_ sweet boy.”

Jaskier whimpers at the sudden penetration, levering himself back on his arms before rocking forward again. The angle is good, and the way his husband ruts against him is even _better_.

“I’m not completely hopeless, hm?”

“Sweet, you _are_ hope.” The Witcher drags him up, up into his arms, until there’s no surface left to support him. Catches him in a filthy kiss, even as his hips rock and grind up into him. “Teaching an old dog new tricks.”

“You’re not old.” Jaskier giggles into his mouth. “You’re just an asshole.”

Vesemir _laughs._ “Oh, you mouthy little slut. I’m at least four hundred.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, eyes bright and mischievous, but only manages a high keening noise when his husband rams in _hard._

“Fuck!”

“See what I get for being _sweet_ to you.”

“ _Please._ ”

“Please _what_ , Jaskier?”

“Love me. _Please_ , love me.”

“I do.”

Vesemir intends to show him _exactly_ how much.

-

Jaskier’s arms cling tight around the older man as he sets a heady pace, fast and deep and slick. The heat from the pool isn’t helping the flush on his cheeks at all, and in the face of so _much_ sensation, all he can do is gasp and whine. 

Hold on for dear life. 

By the time he can feel Vesemir’s knot brushing his rim, it’s been too long. 

He hasn’t the energy to kiss his husband properly, so he settles for brushing his open mouth against a rough cheek. He gasps helplessly when Vesemir’s grip tightens, fingers digging into soft skin. 

He’ll be wearing this for a while. 

“Just want to be good for you.” He pants. 

Vesemir’s lips feel like a brand, impossibly hot and unexpected on his shoulder. “You are. More than I deserve.”

Jaskier can’t help but laugh. 

“Oh, you fucking liar. I love you.”

This, apparently, is enough to surprise the Witcher into an orgasm, knot shoved inside and bard scrabbling not to be dropped unceremoniously into the water even as he’s forced over his own peak. 

“Vesemir, if I _fucking dro-ooowwn.”_

But there’s no real risk. Vesemir gathers him into an even tighter embrace, hips still working inside him. 

It feels so fucking good, Jaskier almost misses that the man has started to cry. 

-

They float for a while, sitting in the spring, locked together. Jaskier relaxes into Vesemir’s lap, perfectly content to lounge there until his fingers shrivel up and prune. 

His husband spends this time pressing soft kisses to his neck and shoulders. “I _am_ sorry.” He says, softly. “I won’t say that I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I’ll be damned if I let myself do it again.”

“The lot of you tend to promise _wildly impractical_ _things,_ you know that?”

Vesemir frowns. 

“I don’t expect you to never lash out. I just want you to talk to me. Ideally before. I’m told this is how healthy marriages work.”

“Who said that?”

“Eskel, probably.”

Vesemir snorts, nipping at his skin. “What can I do to make you happy?”

“You promised me love, didn’t you? Just give me that, and let me return it.”

“...I want to take you somewhere.”

-

The ‘somewhere’ Vesemir takes him turns out to be a large chamber with wide windows, one of which features a cozy bench seat stuffed with pillows. There are deep red curtains, in a fabric that looks an awful lot like…

“Are those velvet?”

“Mm. Thought you’d like them. Good for keeping warm in the winter.”

As if the stone fireplace, sword on mantle, stationed opposite a massive four poster bed heaped with yet _more_ pillows and several fine furs would not be enough.

“Is this your…?”

He pauses, noting a framed sketch on the wall by a wardrobe large enough to fit three grown men—he recognizes himself, a self-satisfied grin on his face, standing with a laughing Eskel. Geralt, opposite, looks at him as if he’s absolutely mad. 

“Lambert drew it. Said decorations were important, and wanted you to have something nice for your room.”

“But this isn’t my room.”

“It is. We built a nest in the common room because we didn’t want to move you. And after that, well…”

He got comfortable. 

“So I’ll be sleeping alone?”

“There’s plenty of room for all of us, if you will it. But this,” He gestures to space as a whole. “Is yours. No one comes in here without your say. We’re working on a proper music room for you, as well, but Eskel and Lambert have been arguing their heads off about acoustics.”

The idea of it sets off an unmistakable warmth in his chest. He feels selfish for asking, but he can’t quite help himself. “What about the nest?”

“You’ll miss it.”

“I’m sentimental. It’s part of the job description.”

Vesemir laughs. “Which one?”

“ _Both_.”

A large hand comes to rest atop his head. “The room hasn’t seen much use these past few decades. It couldn’t hurt to leave it a while longer.”

Jaskier sighs, turning to hug Vesemir properly. He nuzzles into a strong, warm shoulder, takes a deep breath of that comforting scent, and nearly chokes. “What is that?”

Vesemir turns to look. “Ah. I see they’ve hung the moose.”

“I was really hoping it had just disappeared. Would it be some sort of grave offense to Gerd if it mysteriously rolled down the mountainside, or…?”

“It would hurt his feelings, yes.”

“It’s going to watch me sleep. And _fuck._ ”

“Suppose you’ll make it horny?”

“ _Leave immediately._ ” 

Vesemir laughs, but goes to do as he is bidden. He stops at the door to reach up and lever the moose head off the wall. “I’ll find a place of honor in the Solar.”

“Wait.”

“Yes, love?”

“There’s a…” He points to the mantle of the fireplace. “A sword.”

Vesemir’s smile is gentler this time. “There will always be a sword to protect you.”

“You’re a sap. All of you. _Saps._ ”

“And you married each and every one.”

“Come back here and kiss me before you go.” Jaskier orders. “...Put the moose down first.”

-

The moose head is still propped up by the door two hours later, but Jaskier doesn’t much care. Vesemir cradles him in his arms, fingers running through his hair and down his side in lazy intervals. 

It’s warm here, and safe besides. 

“We told you that it’s difficult to explain our tradition. The wives kept, _hell,_ entire books of it, somewhere. And they taught each other for centuries, one after another. It was the way things were done. Some questioned it, but…” He shrugs, only to stop abruptly when it makes Jaskier roll a bit. 

“But it was all centuries-old tradition. And there must have been dozens of them at a time, all upholding it.”

“More than that.”

“Mm.”

“As the years went on, and new wives came to stay, some of them...tried. Isolde nearly got in a fight with one of the mages—”

“Lior.”

Vesemir hesitates a moment, then remembers the journal. “Aye. They started Geralt on experimental trials. Different drugs, different _treatments_ , they called them.”

“That’s why he’s different.”

“Mm.”

“I don’t want that to happen _ever again_.”

“None of us do. But to us, to continue our Path, we can’t stop the Trials.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and nods, feeling his cheek brush over Vesemir’s linen undershirt. “Grasses, Dreams, Mountain.”

Vesemir seems fine until he says the last, and then his arm tightens around the bard. 

“You won’t like that one.”

“I suspect I won’t like any of them. Tell me, please?”

“You need to know,” Vesemir’s breath is a painful rasp in his chest. “You need to _know_ that the Mountain is not a Trial. Not really. It’s supposed to be a mercy if they can’t…”

Jaskier rests his chin on the older man’s chest, captures that golden gaze with his own, and ignores the dampness in them. 

“I need to know.”

-

_Piotr has asked me to give him to the Mountain. I would rather cut his throat myself._

Jaskier marked the page himself. 

It seemed important. And it was.

“The Choice is the first Trial. Doesn’t get mentioned much, but it _is._ Last chance to get out. Take some mushrooms, hallucinate some markedly awful shit, get out if you need to. They’re supposed to _mean it_.”

He looks _distressed,_ as if it’s very important that Jaskier understands. 

“They can...they can _stop._ ” His voice cracks and Jaskier wraps himself tighter about the man. “But most don’t. Most grow up, knowing that it’s their duty, and _only_ their duty. No one else does as we do.”

“No one suffers as you do.”

Vesemir presses a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Can never say that. That’s a jinx. The trouble starts with the Grasses. It’s a certain formula—a decoction of herbs and shit that _changes_ you. All the way down. You become something else, or—”

“Or you die.”

“If you’re lucky.” 

“Piotr wasn’t lucky.”

“Piotr…” Vesemir sighs. “We call it the Trial of the Mountain, but it isn’t a _trial.”_

“A mercy, you said.”

“Technically a test. But if you’re taking it, it’s because you’ve already failed. It’s...the fever ruined you, addled your brain, changed you too much. Piotr’s skin caught fire. Fucked his nerve endings so badly he _screamed_ when Heron touched him. Couldn’t move right. He…”

“Isolde said she’d rather slit his throat.”

“She didn’t have to. Morgan did.”

“Morgan the—”

“Wasn’t the same Morgan. She didn’t remember Lambert, and they were close. He tried to remind her, and she…” He touches his face, where Lambert’s scar would be. “You’ve seen what happened.”

“She went to the Mountain.” 

“And came back witch-eyed.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s what they’re called when they survive the Mountain, but can’t go on to the Path. It’s up to them if they survive.”

“What about the others? The ones that don’t go to the Mountain?”

“They Dream.”

-

Vesemir lays very still, his heartbeat notably quickened under Jaskier’s careful ear. Both of them stare at the ceiling. The sun is setting outside Jaskier’s window. 

“I’m not upset with you. You told me what I need to know.”

“Mm.”

“I can’t tell if I should apologize. I accused you of letting them die, but it wasn’t a choice at all.”

“No.” Vesemir agrees, fingers reaching up to run through the bard’s soft hair. “You should know that Geralt underwent the Trial of the Mountain.”

Jaskier bolts upright, leaning over his oldest husband. “But he—”

“Is the only Witcher ever to _pass_ it.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment, studying the dullness in Vesemir’s eye. Then he takes a deep breath and rests his lips against the man’s forehead. “You must have worried.”

The Witcher drags him down into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am so grateful to all of the _magnificent individuals_ that saw me Wardruna and raised me a list of new music to listen to. I'm a rollerskating baby viking. 
> 
> (Did you think we forgot about the plug? Because we diiiiiiiidnnnnn't.)
> 
> Weary wouldn't let me put in the *Grand* Daddy joke and I feel this is cruel.
> 
> \- Elpie


	9. Histories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier opens the door to the solar. 
> 
> And a lot more, after that. 
> 
> \- 
> 
> There are so many conversations that the Witchers have long needed to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to write a poem for this chapter in like less than ten minutes because Weary says, 'Hey, I thought it might be cool to...'  
> And my brain goes TIME FOR UNNECESSARY EXTRAPOLATION. I'm w e a k. 
> 
> Please feel 100% free to submit your own verses for the poem in the comments. Please.  
> The song in the Solar, in case you can't tap that link is 'The Humming' by Enya. 
> 
> Chapter 2 of White Honey Clinic has been updated [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368013/chapters/62588698)  
> \- Elpie

The Solar should be cold, what with all the windows letting in light both atmospheric and reflected off of towering piles of snow. It  _ would  _ be, had the keep’s residents not spent the day before stocking wood for the crackling fireplace and covering every inch of stone with rugs and tapestries. 

Eskel escorted him in earlier and presented the most ornately wrought rocking chair Jaskier has ever  _ seen _ with a peculiar sigil etched into the back.

He suspects it has something to do with the singing warmth in his bones. 

That, or present company. 

He sits with his lute, running carefully through his usual maintenance of the body and strings, and pretends not to notice more and more of the wintering students crowding in.

Some polish and hone their weapons. Others produce decks of cards. At least one group seems to be wagering  _ socks. _

They’re content, it seems, just to occupy the space with him, and that’s why he’s left the door open—an open door is an open invitation. 

_ You could always find someone there to hold you, or tell you a story. _

All of his stories are set to music, and his accompaniment is drying. 

So he begins to hum. 

Geralt is among those who join in, settled in a window seat near Jaskier’s chair, silver sword across his lap. 

His voice is a deep, powerful current, and before long he’s leading the tune in soft undulating tones. A  _ song  _ rather than a meandering series of notes, one that seems familiar—as if he’s seen it written on the staff. 

“That’s beautiful, Geralt.”

Geralt opens his eyes, and looks surprised to find that he’d closed them. 

Eskel pipes up from his place on the floor, shielding his hand from Lambert’s sneaking eye. “He sang it before, and Mother Isolde picked it up. Says there’s blessings in it.”

“My mother sang it for me.” Geralt ducks his head, trying to hide the flush on his cheek. “The words correspond to runes. She had me trace them for her, so she could write them down.”

Jaskier recalls the note he found tucked in the journal. 

“Would you sing it for me?”

Geralt doesn’t  _ flinch,  _ because there is no threat, but he does flush an even brighter shade of red and twitch like he’s preparing to run. 

“Your mother said you had a beautiful voice. I think you still do.”

One or two of the Witchers assembled  _ hoot _ at that, but Eskel and Lambert both fix their brother with reassuring gazes. 

“We remember it,” Lambert urges. “We’ll sing along. Teach it to the bard.”

###  [ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOP_PPavoLA)

Geralt looks at him, wrong-footed and unsure, and Jaskier feels a swelling of bright warmth in his chest as he smiles, laughter caught in his throat. 

“Do you think I’d let anything hurt you here?”

_ And all the light will be, will be _

_ And all the future prophecy _

_ And all the waves the sea, the sea _

_ And on the road are you and me _

_ Mmmhmmm, mmmhmmm _

_ Mmmhmmm, mmmhmmm _

_ And all the winds are like a kiss _

_ And all the years are nemesis _

_ And all the moments fall in mist _

_ And all is dust, remember this _ __  
  


_ Mmmhmmm, mmmhmmm _

-

By the time Vesemir joins them, the entire wing must be vibrating with the sounds of at least thirty-odd voices singing and humming in a tidal ebb and flow of song.

He waits until they draw to a close before knocking at the door frame. “Dinner’s waiting in the Hall.”

Most begin to file out, but Jaskier lingers in his chair. 

It’s always good to perform  _ for  _ the masses, but there’s something different about performing  _ with  _ the mass. Something impossibly large and cleansing. 

He wonders if this is how Cousin Eugene felt about her endless religious observances, then realizes he really should not be comparing himself to a  _ nun.  _ Ever.

He makes to rise, and stops when bony fingers brush his sleeve. “ Żona, a moment of your time?” 

Jerome, head tucked down to avoid his gaze, makes a curve of his body. Jaskier can’t tell if it’s more an invitation or a defensive stance.  Lambert lingers by the door, but Jaskier waves at him to go on before turning to the Griffin. 

“Right,” He says. “I offered before. What do you need?”

“I’ve had...a rough season, Żona.”

Jaskier has some concept of what a ‘rough season’ looks like to these people, and can’t quite help but wince. “Neither of us should talk about this sober. I know where the Cranes hide the good wine.”

Jerome accepts his hand when he offers it to hold. 

-

The story begins: 

“ _ He was never my father. _ ”

And ends with Jerome curled up in his arms on the pantry floor with Eskel carefully sliding a plate of stuffed rolls across the stones. 

Being held captive for two years in a magical isolation chamber seems to call for this sort of consideration. Especially when it involves one’s parent and a gauntlet of magico-scientific experiments. 

A rough season, indeed.

Jaskier mouths a ‘thank you’ and Eskel nods before ducking back outside. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you, and I’m glad your brothers found you.”

“What did he care for, anyway? That he’d try to unmake me? He gave me up in the first fucking place!”

There are tears gathering in his eyes, and Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to dry them. 

“He let me become this, and then he tried to  _ kill me _ —just to see if he could  _ fix  _ it.”

“There is  _ nothing about you  _ that needs fixing. You spend your life fighting monsters—this one just got the jump on you.” 

“I got to stab him. It didn’t help as much as I thought it would.”

Jaskier sighs. “It never does.”

“I got him. I made him bleed. I’m back here, safe, and we’ve got you now. We’ve got songs and…”

“Closure.”

“ _ That.  _ I want  _ that. _ ” Jerome scratches his fingers through his shorn hair. “Sleeping shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Eskel, get in here. I need more arms.”

Eskel, bless him, scrambles to comply.

-

They put the shaken Witcher to bed with a mug of mushroom-free tea and a sachet of lavender under his pillow. 

Jaskier kisses his forehead, and both men look at him strangely. 

“Oh, shut up. I’ve never done this before.”

Jerome pats his hand, resting on the covers. “You’re doing a good job,  Żona.”

-

C ö en stops him in the hall to pull him into a hug. 

“Thank you.” 

What exactly he is saying thank you  _ for  _ doesn’t need to be said. Jaskier smiles softly. 

“Always.”

And he means it. 

-

Jaskier is standing in his new chambers, plucking at the laces of his chemise uncertainly  as he readies himself for bed . 

Today has been a lot. 

“This belongs to you.” Vesemir rumbles behind him, and Jaskier resolutely  _ does not turn around.  _

“No.”

“No?”

“Today has been an emotional maelstrom, and I am  _ unprepared  _ for you to do another  _ fucking nice thing.” _

He can almost  _ hear _ the man frown. “I could pitch it at your head and run. Is that mean enough?”

Jaskier makes an indignant squawking noise and whirls, which is likely  _ exactly  _ what the older Witcher was going for. His smile is entirely too smug as he holds up the journal and wiggles it demonstratively. 

“You can’t  _ throw  _ a book that old.”

“You want me to find something else?”

“If you want to sleep on the floor, certainly.”

Vesemir grins. “ _ There  _ he is.”

“Shut up. I’m not taking it back. She’d want you to have it.”

“I’ll be all right. She wrote it to help  _ you. _ ”

Jaskier pauses, his eyes flickering between Vesemir and the journal. 

“Then we’ll  _ both  _ keep it— _ in the library. _ ”

In the library, where the sun now peeks past the curtains, spilling over comfortable couches and chairs, all ‘borrowed’ from other parts of the keep.

“Cheeky shit.”

“I’ll sit in your lap, and you can read it to me.” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows, and finds himself thrown onto the bed, gasping with laughter as Vesemir attempts to smother him. Lovingly.

-

His husband is, if anything, true to his word. 

It’s probably part of their ridiculous honor code, but Jaskier prefers to think of it as ‘being sweet.’

Another romantic notion, but one he’s allowed. Especially when he ventures up to the library and finds a new shelf settled just beside the window, tucked away from the sun and between two worn armchairs. 

One is draped in a soft quilt. 

The journal is there, as promised—along with a collection of  _ other  _ memoirs, histories, and reference books cobbled together from various keeps. As he stands, a bit stunned, Oberon shuffles in with a thin-bound book in hand. 

“Oh.” He says. 

‘Oh.’ 

As if Jaskier might suddenly  _ challenge  _ a 6’ tall behemoth who shoots  _ sea monsters _ from a  _ rowboat _ for a living. (And they think  _ Cats _ are crazy.)

“Surprise?”

Oberon flushes a bit. “No, it’s uh...it’s done. Vesemir said you wanted to know more about the Mothers. And we managed to save  _ this. _ ”

He holds out the volume— _ The Mating of Cranes.  _

“I thought C ö en was the one hoarding bodice rippers.”

The Crane grins. “Oh, no. Trust me. Try page 27.”

-

_ The Mating of Cranes  _ is apparently an entire volume of rude poetry penned by irritated Crane wives. 

Pages 27 through 30, thus far Jaskier’s personal favorite, are “My Fucking Husband.”

So he holes up in the library to read. 

-

_ An’ you rise in early morning, _

_ and head out for a proper run _

_ you’ll find my fucking husband, _

_ with his brothers and their guns. _

_ They’ll blow the monsters from the water, _

_ sure, and count it as a win— _

_ But these poor, demented bastards _

_ have never learned to swim.  _

-

A few hours later, he hears soft footsteps approaching—weighted out of courtesy—and knows that Geralt is coming before he sees him. 

He turns to offer his husband a smile. 

“Hello, darling.”

Geralt hums, the tiniest of answering smiles on his face. He comes to crouch by Jaskier’s chair, foregoing comfort for closeness. 

Jaskier likes that he’s comfortable enough to do that. 

“What are you reading?”

“Isolde’s journal,” He says, marking his place with a thumb so that he might show the cover. “Do you remember it?”

Geralt is quiet, his gaze intense. “Yes.” He rasps. 

“She traced your hand into it…here.” He turns back to the page, calling it from memory. “Look how small you were!”

He takes the Witcher’s hand, so much larger than his own, and brings it up to the tiny print to compare. Geralt’s fingers brush the parchment, and Jaskier can feel a tremor through his palm. 

“Geralt?” He asks. 

“She didn’t want me.”

“Who didn’t—?”

“Visenna. My mother.” The Witcher shifts, curving in toward his husband.

“You were a Child Surprise.”

“Yes.”

“...It must have been horrible, living here.”

“No.” Geralt frowns, turning to look up at him properly. “No, we had—”

“Mothers?”

“Well, yes.” Then there was a pause. “But it was their job to be. They didn’t  _ want  _ us. It was their duty.”

“Kind of like  _ your  _ duty?”

More frowning. 

“You  _ care  _ about people. You can’t do what you do  _ without _ caring about people. You’re all impossibly kind and brave—the sort of people who risk your lives for  _ hope _ . And you don’t get that from people that don’t  _ love  _ you.”

“You really believe that.” Geralt sighs, leaning into the arm of the chair. Looking for reassurance, even if he’s not the sort to admit it.  _ He  _ wants to believe it. 

“I  _ learned  _ it, you bum. I  _ read  _ it. Look.” He picks up the journal, cradling it in his hands and turning pages, again and again. “Your handprint. Lambert’s drawings. There’s a lock of Eskel’s  _ hair  _ stuck in here somewhere. You and all of your siblings. The woman who gave birth to you might have left you, but your  _ mothers  _ loved you.”

Geralt presses his forehead into the chair’s arm.

“And now you’re mine, and  _ I  _ want you.”

Golden eyes peeking at him

“And if—gods save me—if you lot start bringing children back here, I’ll love them. I’ll be horrible at it, but I’ll love them.”

“Jaskier.”

“Because I love  _ you _ , and I have to assume you’ll have reasonable taste in—this is a  _ horrible  _ sentence.”

“You’ll regret saying that. Lambert will  _ make  _ you regret it.” His smile is wide and bright.

“Let me hold your face.”

Geralt snorts, but obliges, raising his head so that Jaskier might cup his stubbled cheek. 

“You are  _ good. All _ of you. You are  _ real, actual  _ heroes—not some fairytale horseshit.”

The Witcher blinks at him, surprised at Jaskier’s sudden departure from flowery nonsense.

“The only difference between  _ you  _ and a  _ knight  _ is that you have a  _ reliable clue  _ what you’re on about.”

“...few other things.”

“Don’t interrupt me. I’m making a point.”

“All right.” Geralt says, and relaxes into Jaskier’s grip. “Tell me how good I am.”

“ _ Oh. _ ” Jaskier hums. “We’re exploring  _ that _ as soon as this conversation is over.”

-

Lambert finds him later that evening, plucking furiously at his lute, slate tucked by his hip. He sprawls across the bed from the opposite side, so that he can look up at the bard more easily. 

“So about my taste in chil—”

Jaskier hits him with a pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put a <3 in your comment to give Jerome a hug. 
> 
> Like _dang_.


	10. Needs Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t want my attention? That’s a shame.” Jaskier’s smile is slow and _wicked._ “That’s a shame, because I want yours.”
> 
> Firm fingers grasp his chin. It would be simple to break the hold, but Lambert very much _does not want to._
> 
> -
> 
> Lambert uses his words. 
> 
> And then his dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all came for the porn here's more of the porn.
> 
> I'm broken now. Defeated.  
> Stop shaking me I'm baby. 
> 
> (This is unbeta'd because we hate us.)
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> The thing with Gerd was my idea and I refuse to be sorry about it. 
> 
> \- Weary

Jaskier did not say anything when Lambert stole a roll off of his plate at breakfast. It was  _ odd _ , but it was Lambert. And Eskel immediately kicked him under the table and fetched Jaskier more bread. 

Jaskier did not say anything when Lambert bloodied up Gerd in practice and wiped blood on the sleeve of his chemise. He thought the Witcher had been showing off. But then he’d immediately pissed off to goodness knew where. 

Lambert’s always a bit of an asshole. 

Jaskier thinks of it as a barrier: a way for Lambert to protect himself. He has a remarkably gentle heart, and a kindness to him that, despite occasional teasing, the bard genuinely treasures. 

It  is unfortunately  _ not  _ on display when his husband  _ bodychecks _ him in the library, a vicious little smile on his lips. 

“ _ That’s  _ it.” 

Lambert freezes, stunned at the sudden snarl. 

“You’re going to explain what the  _ hell  _ that was, and it’s going to be  _ good _ .  _ Sit. _ ”

Lambert collapses obediently into a sturdy chair. 

“What’s gotten into you?”

All 6’Nonsense” of his husband fidgets under his gaze for a brief, telling moment before the stubbornness seems to pour back in. He lifts his chin. “Wasn’t anything.”

“It absolutely  _ was  _ something. You’re  _ rude _ to me sometimes, but not  _ mean. _ There was no reason for you to shove me like that. What’s going on?”

Lambert is quiet. 

“Have I done something to upset you? I thought we were doing better about talking—”

“You want to talk to  _ me?  _ What for? You’ve got Geralt and Eskel and the old man for that.” Lambert spits out, then tenses up, looking anywhere  _ but  _ at his husband. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “You’re jealous.”

“Get bent.” Lambert moves to rise from the chair, only to be forced back by his own momentum.

“I will. I  _ absolutely _ will, and you’re going to help me.”

The bard plants his hands on the armrests, leaning over just enough for Lambert to glimpse down his shirt to the warm planes of his skin. It’s a curse, really, that Jaskier’s taken to forgoing his doublets around the keep.

Lambert bites his lip, frozen when he takes in the fever brightness of the bard’s eye.

“You don’t want my attention? That’s a shame.” Jaskier’s smile is slow and  _ wicked. _ “That’s a shame, because I want  _ yours _ .”

Firm fingers grasp his chin. It would be simple to break the hold, but Lambert  _ very much _ does not want to.

“I want  _ all of it.  _ I want your eyes on me when you fuck me, when you come for me, when you gasp for air.”

The grip rasps through his beard and turns to the barest pressure at his throat.

He can’t really help the whining.

“I think most of all I want your sweetness. How badly you want to be  _ good. _ And you are, aren’t you? You always want to be  _ good  _ for me, despite all the shit-talking you do.”

Jaskier smiles, watching Lambert’s eyes flutter shut.  _ “Yes.” _

He brushes a kiss over his lips. A reward.

“That’s good. I want you to be honest with me. I want to  _ know _ when you need my attention. I want to  _ give  _ it to you.”

“ _ Please. _ ”

Jaskier sighs, slipping closer as Lambert’s hands tug at his hips, bright golden eyes fixing on him again.

“I’ll be good.”

“Do you want to show me?”

Lambert flushes, and Jaskier can’t help but find it  _ cute.  _ Especially when he bends further, freeing up one hand to press up against the growing tent in the Witcher’s pants.

Lambert squirms against the hard wood of the chair. “We’re in—”

_ Public. _

Anyone could walk in on them, though Jaskier doubts any of Lambert’s brothers could mistake the heavy breathing and sudden smell of slick in the air. He’s more than ready for this. 

“I don’t mind. Do you?” He slides one knee up alongside Lambert’s side, hovering over that soft mouth with a smile. 

“What if someone sees?”

“Sees what? You, taking care of me? Being good to me? Dragging me down onto your knot?”

“Shit.” Lambert’s grip tightens, along with the tendons in his neck. 

“You’re a lot more worried about this than I am. I know exactly what you can give me, and I want it.”

“I thought we were having a conversation.”

“Call it a two-parter.” Jaskier sighs, easing up for just a moment. “You feel unwanted, and I intend to prove you  _ very  _ wrong.”

-

Clothes abandoned haphazardly on the floor, light spilling over them, Lambert looks at Jaskier like he is something equally strange and precious.

His hands hover over the familiar dip of his hips, hesitating.

Like something has changed.

Like Jaskier isn’t already stretched and wet and aching for him.

Oh, what a change he’s been through in such a short season.

“Well? Aren’t you going to take what you want?”

“I was waiting for permission.”

Jaskier takes in a breath of cool, heavy air. “ _ You have it.  _ Fuck me.” He palms the warm heft of Lambert’s cock, thumb rubbing against the loose skin of his knot, and sighs happily as Lambert surges up against him, dragging his hips closer to rut them together. 

“ _ That’s it _ . Look how good you are to me. I love your hands.”

Lambert whines, and Jaskier leans in to press kisses to his throat. “Your  _ mouth.  _ How the hell did you ever end up  _ here _ ?”

“Luck, I’d guess.” Jaskier grins, then bites his lip _ hard _ to keep from keening when Lambert lifts him up by the ass with one hand and angles his dick with the other.

He teases, of course, because he’s a  _ bastard,  _ rubbing the head against Jaskier’s slick, waiting hole.

“You’re being mean again.”

“Mmm. I just like the look on your face.” He smiles, mouth open and panting, and leans in to nip at a swollen lip absent the use of his hands. “Don’t bite these. I need them.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, maybe to tease him, maybe to urge him on, but it all dissolves into a needy whine as Lambert lowers him onto his cock.

He waits ever so patiently as Jaskier rolls into the stretch, the sweet burn of it. Softens at the way the bard curves his spine to hide his face against the expanse of his chest. 

He waits until Jaskier takes in a shaky breath, straightening up to brace his hands on broad shoulders and look him in the eye. “I’ll never get tired of that.”

Lambert runs a rough thumb over his hip. “Feeling full?”

“Feeling you slip inside. Your hands on my hips. How warm you are.” He hums, smiling lazily. “The way you’re looking at me  _ right now. _ Do you want to move?”

Lambert rasps.

“I want you to. Come on, be good to me.”

And then he can’t say much at all, because Lambert’s sucking on his tongue, hips driving in hard. A broad palm rolls over the head of his prick, and he squeals as the Witcher’s hips roll, slowly at first, and then—

_ Fuck. _

-

Lambert braces one foot on the floor, and the opposite heel at the edge of the chair, driving into Jaskier without any semblance of mercy. The bard is  _ crying  _ on top of him, head thrown back and chest heaving for breath.

The slick-wet slap of skin echoes through the library, and no doubt through the halls.

Carefully-kept nails dig into the backs of his shoulders as his pretty mate tries to meet the powerful thrusts. Lambert indulges himself, watching the roll of that soft stomach, the bobbing of his pretty dick when the Witcher lets go of it.

“No,  _ more. _ ” Jaskier gasps. “Don’t—”

He obeys, pressing open-mouthed kisses to bruised throat and jaw. His grip is tight, and the other man’s hips stutter even further.

“You’re close, aren’t you? What do you need?”

“ _ You. _ ”

A rough, curt laugh.

“You’ve got  _ me. _ ”

Jaskier looks down at him again, eyes bright and intent. He flexes his hips again and then  _ squeezes.  _ “ _ Tell me.” _

“ _ Shit.  _ Tell you—w-what?”

“That you love me.”

Lambert shivers against him, even through the heat. “ _ That I…” _

“ _ Say it. _ ” Jaskier hisses, clenching up around the thick pressure of him inside. “ _ Please. _ ”

“I love you. I do.  _ Son of a bitch,  _ I—”

Jaskier tangles long fingers in his soft, dark hair, dragging him down. “ _ Yes.  _ Yes, I love you, too. You’re so  _ fucking  _ good to me. How could you  _ ever  _ think I didn’t—ah  _ ahh _ .”

“Fuck.  _ Fuck! _ ” Lambert feels himself swell up, feels the knot push inside so  _ easily _ —the softened muscle parting for him like a lover’s embrace. “ _ Jaskier.” _

But Jaskier is gone already, mouth open in an empty scream. He presses his forehead against Lambert’s, gripping him tight tight tight.

He doesn’t want to let go, either.

Lambert lets his eyes drift shut again.

It’s warm. 

-

“I’m not jealous.” Lambert grumbles into Jaskier’s hair, cradling the bard’s naked form in his arms. They make quite a picture, bare ass naked in the library.

“Lambert…”

“I’m  _ not.  _ I  _ like  _ knowing that we’re all taking care of you. I  _ like _ watching you—listening to you with the others. I like seeing you satisfied. But soon…”

“You’ll head out on the Path.”

Soft lips brush over the top of his head, Lambert reeling him in as tightly as he can. “’s the first time in a century I haven’t been crawling out of my skin ready to go.”

“You’re going to miss me.”

“Mmm.”

“So you acted like an ass.”

“I’m not good at the feelings shit.”

“You’re perfectly good at the feelings shit. You’re just self-conscious about it. You didn’t think I’d miss you back?”

“…I’m an ass.”

“And I love you. Of course I’ll miss you. I’ll be right here waiting to welcome you home.”

“ _ Shit. _ ” Lambert hides his face in the soft curve of his shoulder.

-

“Where, exactly, do you think you’re going?”

“We got slick all over the chair. Gotta get something to clean it.”

“Use my shirt.”

Lambert frowns. “But it’s—”

“Already ruined. Blood, remember?”

The Witcher blushes again, looking decidedly shame-faced. “I’ll get you another one. …I’m sorry.”

And then Jaskier’s arms are tangled around his neck and shoulders again, pulling him into a deep, wet kiss. 

“ _ Sweet _ .”

-

They linger a while longer, content to lounge like utter reprobates in a public space, and no one is stupid enough to come get an eyefull. 

“We need a mirror.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got sketches of me, haven’t you? I’ve seen your work.”

“Yeah. A few.” Lambert scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s not weird or anything.”

“It’s not.” Jaskier nods. “But I want you to have one of  _ both of us _ . So we need a mirror.”

“Oh.” 

Jaskier blinks, startled at the brush of skin against his thigh, but then caves to laughter. “I meant  _ clothed _ , but I’m not going to fight you.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose.” Lambert hisses, burying his face in the bard’s shoulder. 

“It’s flattering.”

“You’re just fucking  _ hot. _ ”

More laughter. “I’m glad! Just give me a few minutes.”

“Enough time to find a mirror.”

“And you’ll be…?”

“Recovering for round two, I assume.”

“ _ Maybe in fucking Lambert’s room next time?!” _ Gerd calls from beyond the library door. 

And then  _ both  _ of them collapse into a laughing fit. 

“ _ ‘M not jokin’! You better wipe off that damn chair!” _

-

There’s a certain poetry in having Lambert take him, as promised, in front of the mirror. They spend what feels like hours on all fours, one strong wrapped about slim hips, guiding him back into that bulk even as the other gripped a stick of charcoal, committing every detail to parchment. 

They both wind up streaked with black. 

Jaskier is content to write his chemise off as a total loss and wait for more material to come available. He recalls a tailor’s shop in the village at the mountain’s base. 

But then Lambert presses a kiss behind his ear and hums. “Come on. I’ll fix it.”

And shows him, weak-kneed and satisfied, to the laundry. 

-

“Ah _ , fuck  _ me _. _ ” Gerd mumbles as he watches them invade yet another room. 

\- 

They  _ do not  _ have sex in the laundry room. 

Instead, Jaskier relaxes into the warm, steamy air, watching the flex of his husband’s muscle as he turns the great paddle in the wash basin. 

He’s apparently skilled at removing stains. 

You learn something every day. 

But like this, he’s content. And when Lambert holds up his chemise, free of blood and other questionable substances, water dripping down his bared forearms to dampen his sleeves…

All right, so they  _ do  _ have sex in the laundry room. 

-

Over breakfast the next morning, everything seems perfectly normal.

That is, until Gerd slams his plate down directly across from Lambert, shoving over poor Oberon. “ _ Today. In the training yard. You and me. _ ”

Lambert smirks the smirk of a man who’s been screwed within an inch of his life and feels no pain. “If you say so, mate.”

This will likely change this afternoon, but for now, Jaskier laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerd wins, but Lambert dies happy. 
> 
> We're almost to the end of part one. Then one of you people is getting me a smoothie or a Prius as a reward for good behavior. 
> 
> \- Elpie


	11. Spring is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Care and Feeding of Your Small Army. 
> 
> -
> 
> Jaskier prepares for his husbands' departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come to the end of Part One, loves! 
> 
> I want to take a moment to be real with everyone. It's been a bit difficult to keep up with the regular update schedule, so we'll be taking a bit more time to write and post Part Two. I hope you stick with us, and that you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> We're genuinely so pleased that so many of you have taken the time to read through and talk to us. We feel so loved, and we want you to know that we love you back. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> -
> 
> We promised plot and we've brought it! It's been a bit of a windy road, but thanks for sticking with us so far! That said, we are currently working on part 2 but I'm heading back to school and my job soon so things will be a little less regular. Stay with us! Good stuff is coming.
> 
> \- Weary

“So we need to dry out, what? Five pounds of jerky  _ per witcher? _ ” Jaskier asks, installed on one of the long benches between Vesemir and Merten, an older Manticore. Erland, former swordsmaster to the Griffins, slides a ridiculously oversized tome across the table. 

So he’s getting an impromptu lesson on spring preparation. Not  _ exactly  _ what he’d expected when Vesemir lured him out with the promise of sweets. 

There  _ are  _ sweets. Only just out of reach. 

It’s too early for this. 

Erland is imposing, his once-dark hair now more silver than anything, shaved at the sides and braided down the center. Much like the other Griffins, his head is tattooed with intricate ravens. He scratches at them when he’s deep in thought. 

Like now. 

“We try to outfit everyone as best we can before we set them onto the Path. It will be a few weeks before towns have any food to spare—no matter the coin they carry.”

“Then why send everyone out  _ now? _ ”

“‘Cause the monsters are coming out of hibernation.”

Human and beast alike. 

“The Path is always hard, but it is ours to travel.” Erland rumbles, then lifts his cup to sip at Vesemir’s favored tea blend, the familiar scent of cardamom and cinnamon wrapping around them all. 

_ Points for the most Witcher-y thing I’ve heard today.  _

“But with any luck, we’ll garner enough coin to better provision for next winter. Perhaps save a little for repairs.” There’s a hopeful look in the Griffin’s eyes, glancing to the boarded-up windows in the hall. 

“I’ll be staying for the warm season.” Vesemir nods. “Make the needed repairs.”

“I can help with that.” Jaskier says, and all three men give him the same exact look. 

“The last thing we need is you climbing the walls.”

Okay, that hurts a little. “I can think of several things you need less.”

“A hole in my head.” Erland deadpans. 

“A bucket, but with a hole in it.” Merten smiles. 

“You’re horrible people and I won’t miss you at all.”

Merten pats him on the back. “Stay on the ground where it’s safe. Witchers bounce. You won’t.”

Erland continues, “I’m taking Coën with me to Kaer Seren. We hope there might be something salvageable there.”

“It’s been years.” Vesemir blinks. “Now?”

Erland smiles. “We had some inspiration.”

_ Aww.  _

Jaskier reaches out and places a gentle hand on the Griffin’s arm. A broader palm covers it. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Aye, as do I.”

“Enough with the sappy shit, let’s get down to brass tacks.” Merten gestures with what Jaskier is fairly certain is his third cup of ale this morning. His scraggly black hair falling into his eyes.

“Right.” He agrees, glancing back down at...so much paperwork. “This is going to take some time.”

-

“So, the smokehouse is in some type of working order?” 

Vesemir nods, and Jaskier feels his shoulders un-knot just a little. He’s educated in the arts, certainly, but that doesn’t usually include the care and feeding of a small, belligerent army. 

His new least favorite word is  _ Actually… _

And if another senior guildsman  _ says it _ , he’s escaping down the mountain to hire a few dozen tradespeople. 

No wonder Stefan backed out of this meeting. He’d like to join the man. 

“Give me a sweet roll, Erland.”

“You’ve had  _ three. _ ”

“Give him a sweet roll, Erland.” Vesemir repeats, and Erland does it, watching as Jaskier lifts his pen like an executioner’s sword. He takes a truly massive bite of his treat and frowns down at the accounts. 

The sun is starting to go down, and he is very, very tired of this. 

“Right, that’s settled. Tomorrow we’ll start sending out hunting parties. See if we can bulk up our stores.”’

“I’ll teach you how to preserve the kill.” Vesemir nods. 

It says a horrific amount that this strikes him as very sweet.

Jaskier glances up at a flash of white, watching as his remaining husband tote in buckets of white wash and brushes for the walls. It will help to lighten the area. Lambert has plans to sketch in the missing bits of the mural and restore it properly when paints can be secured in the spring. 

_ Spring _ .

It’s only a handful of weeks now before the keep will empty, with no real promise that his husbands will return. 

He doesn’t want to think about it.

-

The preemptive longing engenders a certain sense of good will in him. It’s not enough to let Eskel get away with calling him  _ turtle dove _ a few mornings later. 

“Not that one. That one’s bad.”

“And what will you give me, to quiet my tongue?”

“ _ A gag. _ ”

“This really isn’t a deterrent.”

“A locked door just might be.” Jaskier teases, taking his husband’s hand. “What did you need?”

“I was wondering if I might join you in the Kitchens today.”

“I wasn’t going to the Kitchens today. What do you need?” 

“Thought I’d make cheese. Bleater’s been giving a lot of milk recently, and—”

“‘Bleater?’”

“A goat.”

“I hope so.”

Eskel ruffles his hair. “She’s a good girl. Was supposed to be fork-tail bait, but…”

“You’re a giant sap.”

Eskel’s cheeks start to tint. “She’s a good milker.”

“ _ And you love her. _ ” He places his hands on the taller man’s cheeks, puckering his lips in a ridiculous pout. “Introduce us  _ immediately _ .”

-

Her proper name is ‘Lil’ Bleater’, Eskel explains, stepping over the wicker fence so a mottled red and white goat can trot over and butt into his leg. She lips at his pants, like good fortune may turn them into grass, and butts him again when they do not. 

Eskel keeps smiling, rubbing her head affectionately. 

He’s built a house for her, evidently—a cozy lean-to under the shelter of an outcropping. There’s a sign with her  _ name  _ on it. 

Of course his husbands live in a rotting keep, but make sure the  _ goat _ stays warm and dry. 

“Should I be jealous?” 

“What? We gave you your own room. Though she doesn’t have to sleep with Lambert.”

“ _ Be nice to him. _ ” Jaskier hisses. “You only have one more week.”

Eskel stills for a moment, the look in his eyes genuinely sad. “I’ll miss you.”

“Me, or the goat?”

“She  _ is _ very good company.”

Jaskier gasps, playing at shock with his hand over his heart. “A  _ goat _ is better company than  _ me? _ ” He reaches down to scratch at a floppy ear. “She  _ is  _ very polite.”

“She’s got no thumbs, so she can’t throw shit out windows, either.”

She nails Eskel in the leg again, right at the knee joint, and Jaskier is satisfied to see his husband wobble. 

“So, she was supposed to be monster bait. How scratched up did you get taking  _ that one  _ back?”

Eskel kicks at the dirt, trying to hide his returning blush. “Nothing a few herbs couldn’t fix. She pulls her weight, besides. It’ll be nice to have cheese for the road.”

Jaskier smiles, and leans in to kiss his husband’s cheek. Eskel turns his head to steal a proper kiss on the lips. “It’s sweet. You’re sweet.”

“Don’t tell Lambert.”

Jaskier swats him. “I take it back. Will you show me this art of cheesemaking?”

“Hmm.” Eskel nods. “Put some muscle on you.”

“Could put some muscle  _ in  _ me, too.”

“ _ Move,  _ menace, or we’ll never get anything done.”

-

Jaskier shamelessly admires the bulge of his husband’s ridiculous muscles as he totes the bucket of milk into the Kitchens and sets one of the large copper pots over the range. 

“Instruct me, ‘O Cheesemeister.”

Eskel frowns at him. “Aren’t bards supposed to be witty?”

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss my ass? You’re in  _ my _ kitchen. This is the kiss my ass room.”

Eskel gives him a gentle slap on the ass. “There should be a jar of rennet in the pantry. Can you fetch it for me, please?”

“To the ends of the earth, my love.”

“That sounds more like it.”

So begin their adventures in cheesemaking. 

If only his mother could see him now. 

-

Jaskier watches Eskel intently for all of his teasing and taunting, admiring his husband’s dedication to the craft. He’s focused now, making something good for his brothers to take with them, to bring some element of pleasure into mindless survival. 

“I love you, you know?”

Eskel drops the ladle. “What?”

“I don’t think I’ve told you yet, have I? But I do. I’ve never met anyone so sweet.”

“Geralt,” Eskel grins. “But I basically raised him, so…”

“And so modest!” Jaskier opens his arms, and Eskel eases into them, cradling the bard’s face between his palms, rough thumbs running over soft skin. 

“I’ll never know how we got so lucky.”

“Again, beartrap.”

Eskel snorts, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I love you, too. With my whole heart.”

Jaskier sighs.

“Turtledove.”

“You’re sleeping with the goat tonight.”

Eskel laughs and bites at the soft skin of his throat. 

Jaskier turns his head at a movement from the doorway and finds Gerd’s head dangling in from the frame, eyes wide and terrifying. “Not. Where. We  _ eat _ .”

Which... _ almost  _ kills the mood.

-

Jaskier has grown accustomed to footsteps and boisterous voices ringing through the halls, the clang of weapon meeting weapon in the courtyard. 

It leaves him feeling suddenly heartbroken, but he has no time to indulge the feeling. He has husbands and brothers to prepare for the Path. But it will all be gone soon. 

Beside him on the bench, Eskel sets down his cup and rests a warm hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt, seated at his other side, brushes his bangs back. “It’s the coming season, isn’t it?”

“Mm.” Jaskier sighs. “I’m going to miss you all.”

Lambert leans around Eskel, face open and eager. “We’ll bring you back things.”

Like a magpie, he is. 

“New clothes.” Geralt nods. 

“A new lute.” Eskel smiles.

He’s half-expecting Lambert to offer  _ lacy underthings _ , but his smile is soft as he offers, “A ring.”

“Thank you, loves.” Jaskier whispers. “But I think I just want you for now.”

“Sap.” All three chorus. 

“Fuck you, hug me.”

His husbands, as ever, are quick to oblige. 

-

The rest of that last week is burdened with preparation—packing supplies, storing resources, readying horses, and brewing potions. To Jaskier’s credit, he’s only had one minor explosion under Vesemir’s watchful eye. 

He spends his nights wrapped up in as many of his husbands as he can pull into the nest room, sprawled out by the fire. Soon it will be too hot, but by then most of them will be gone on their way. 

They make time for him. 

Geralt takes him down to the stables to help him give Roach a good brushing out, and scolds her when she nips at the bard. 

Eskel urges him to sneak away one afternoon and take a ridiculously indulgent nap. 

Lambert presents him with a new chemise—soft, with delicate, hand-embroidered flowers at the cuffs and hem. 

“Where did you get this?” He asks.

“I made it for you.” Lambert answers, scratching at the back of his head, and panics when the bard’s eyes fill with tears. 

Just what in the hell is he going to do without them?

-

Vesemir stands with him atop the wall, watching as the last of the itinerant Witchers take their leave for the season—Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert, lingering perhaps longer than they usually would. 

He watches as they turn in their saddles, glancing back and waving. 

Eventually, his arm tires.

Ten of them remain, but there’s only one of them he’s worried about right now. 

“If you suddenly have an errand to go on.” Jaskier says, not sniffling at all. “I’ll fight you.”

“No,” Vesemir smiles very softly. “If I leave you with Jerome, I’ll come back to  _ two  _ terrors in my keep.”

“Mm.”

“We should talk, you and I.”

“You’re not still keeping secrets.” He tries to tease, but there’s very little energy in it. 

“No, none by intent.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow? Can you hold me until then?”

“For as long as you like.” Vesemir nods. “But soon, we need to talk about the Cats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tiny horny gremlins soon. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> -
> 
> FYI we have a running tally of everyone that's said "Came for the porn, stayed for the plot" ;)
> 
> \- Weary
> 
> -
> 
> _Please stop asking to be added to the tally. It was a salty comment, not an invitation. W H Y._
> 
> \- Elpie


	12. Summer Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Summer season, and most Witchers have returned to the Path. 
> 
> A brief visit dredges up old memories and older wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, we lied.  
> Here's another chapter for Part One. 
> 
> And then there should be an interlude.  
> And then Part Two. _whimper_  
>  This chapter is unbeta'd because _-vague screaming noises in the distance-_
> 
> In all seriousness, though, I'm genuinely excited to introduce more of our cast to you, and also to stop referring to them on Discord as REDACTED.  
> I have to give credit to Weary here. She wrote an entire chapter and then my ass came in like Miley Cyrus, dressed in saran wrap and swinging on a wreeeeeecking baaaaaall.
> 
> Please forgive me. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> This chapter was a long time in coming.  
> Enjoy. 
> 
> \- Weary

It turns out that Lil’ Bleater really _is_ a good milker, now that the summer grasses have grown in. It has taken Jaskier a week or so to really get the hang of milking her without her making some unholy _screeching_ noise. 

In return for his more experienced hand she gave him about 3 quarts of milk a day, which meant that the cheese cellar is slowly starting to bulk up. The sight of the slowly filling shelves makes Jaskier swell with no small amount of pride. 

And he makes sure to thank Bleater for it. 

“Would you like help with that pail, Żona?” A deep voice rumbles from behind.

“Shit-” Jaskier gasped, nearly dropping the aforementioned bucket. “...Coën?”

The Griffin smiles, and bows. “Forgive me for scaring you, Żona. I did not mean to; I forget how quiet I can be.” 

“Hm. I have a feeling you’re not all that sorry.” Jaskier demands with a raised eyebrow and a stern expression. 

“...It was a little funny.” The warrior admits, suddenly looking a little sheepish before Jaskier cracks and begins to giggle. Coën looks confused before he joins in. “You’re spending too much time around Vesemir.”

“Help me carry the damn bucket.” 

-

Coën ends up in the Kitchens helping Jaskier transform the milk into a lovely chevré.

“The cheese was very nice. It didn’t last all that long, but it was nice while it did.” He comments mildly as they wait for a skin to form. “It’s not often we get such comforts on the path since...well.” 

He waves his hand. 

“Eskel worked hard on it. Wanted everyone to have a little something.” Jaskier sighs, brow pinching a little. He misses his husbands. He knows they’re capable Witchers. But it’s hard not to worry.

“They’ll be back, Żona. You’ve given them something to fight for. They’ll be back.” 

Jaskier looks up to meet blood-shot golden eyes full of a fierce determination.

Hopefully he is right. 

“After this, Żona, I have something to show you.” 

-

The feel of the library has vastly improved since the clean out and subsequent repairs. The walls have been replastered and any broken glass in the alcoves swept up and replaced. Jaskier looks forward to getting new desks, tables, and chairs here one day. 

That’s a matter for another day. For now, near the reference collection that Vesemir set up, there’s a very large crate. 

Coën produces a pry bar and levers the lid off, revealing a collection of journals and books damaged by long years and exposure to the elements. It will be a wonder if any are salvageable.

Jaskier attempts to crack one open, but the pages stubbornly refuse to part. 

He opens his mouth to declare _at least_ half the books beyond hope, but stops when Jerome comes to inspect the findings. His expression is soft as he reaches out to touch one of the journals inside. 

“That was Mama Rosala’s.” His voice never rises above a whisper but Jaskier feels like he’s been punched in the gut. 

Coën is there, rubbing his brother’s back. “It took us a long time to find that one, Jerome. We knew it would be important to you.” 

The younger Griffin slowly sits in one of the remaining arm chairs, brushing tears from his eyes and clutching the molding journal to his chest. 

“Thank you, brother. Thank you.”

 _Fuck me,_ Jaskier thinks, _time to start a restoration project._

-

That evening, Erland is delighted to hear of the enterprise, clasping Jaskier’s shoulder and smiling at Vesemir. Clearly, he should be proud of his wife’s dedication. 

Vesemir, bless him, offers to craft the necessary replacement journals and tomes for Jaskier’s transcriptions. 

“It would be an honor, friend.” 

He and Erland grasp forearms, heads bowed together. 

“We can never thank you—”

“Don’t even start, Erland. If we don’t have each other in times like these, we’re truly lost.” They pull away and Vesemir flashes a rueful grin. “Back to the Path?” 

“It always calls.” 

“Let's get you provisioned, then.” 

“You’re leaving, already?” Jaskier asks, stunned. “You haven’t been here a day—”

“A good Żona always worries.” Erland chuckles, shaking his head. “But no, we’ve wasted enough time off the path. Coën and I will leave tomorrow.” 

“Please, at least a few days—”

Erland places both hands on Jaskier’s shoulders and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. 

“You’re sweet to worry. I will return come winter...just look after Jerome for me. Please.” 

“Always. I’m going to work on saving what I can. It will keep me busy, at least.” Jaskier’s smile is weak and he knows it. “Just bring back some balm for what’s left of my hands.”

He wonders when _his_ husbands will return.

-

Jaskier is ensconced by a sunny window in the Library, spread out on a vast desk that Vesemir and Salrin, a remaining Manticore, have salvaged from the depths of the keep. 

He would love to credit his greater learning in Oxenfurt for his ability to read such terrible handwriting, but honestly it was his many hours fugitively reading poorly copied smut.

He can’t help but sigh at himself. 

“Excuse me, Żona?”

Jaskier turns to see Jerome lingering over him, hands clutching a freshly cut quill and a bottle of ink. 

His eyes drift from ready hands to the Griffin’s face. 

Thank Metitele, he’s filling out his skin again—finally starting to look more like a Witcher than a wraith. 

“Yes, Jerome? How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if I might join you.”

“In transcribing?” Jaskier can’t imagine why someone would _want_ such a tedious task— _oh._

Maybe he _can_ imagine why. 

He pushes his current project, the journal of a lovely man named Grian. He has a flowery way of writing that lights up the mind’s eye. Best of all, his handwriting is relatively neat once you get past the smeared ink and _moss_. Jaskier has even grown used to the musty smell. 

“Finish this up for me then?” 

Jerome smiles, running his hand over the faded yellow cover. 

“They still smell like them. Just a little.” 

Jaskier stills as he gingerly lifts the cover off a massive tome. He tries not to bring too much attention to those words. 

If Jerome wants to explain, he will. 

Time passes, and Jaskier deciphers the title:

_An Account of Wives_

Witchers were ever to the point, aren’t they? 

He pulls over one of Vesemir’s volumes in a suitable size and starts jotting down the words mindlessly. 

There’s too much information for him to read _every_ line of the ledger, especially since it rapidly becomes clear that it’s a record of births, initiations, and deaths. 

“I thought about them all a lot. When that _bastard_ had me.” Jerome turns a page with great care, like the entire journal may dissolve between his fingers. “Even though they’re _gone,_ they were still something to hold onto.” 

Tears drip down onto the page, and Jaskier offers out a handkerchief. 

Jerome takes it and blows his nose. 

“It’s...nice. To read their words. It’s like I’m sitting with them again. Like they’re not so far…” 

There’s a faint smile on his face, even as the tears come. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this. For preserving their memories and their _souls_.” 

Jaskier, for once, doesn’t know what to say. He just reaches out to take Jerome’s hand. 

“But they’ll be safe here, won’t they?” The man lifts his head to look around the room. “‘ _Love lives with us,’_ they used to say.” 

There’s a soft noise as he clears his throat. 

“Now we get to protect that. They’ll _never_ be forgotten.” _That_ is a promise that Jaskier fully intends to keep. He’ll write songs about every single one of them if he has to. 

They deserve that much. 

“Now, come on. Give me a hug.” Jaskier’s tone brokers no negotiation as he spreads his arms. 

The Griffin seems so small somehow as he leans into the hug. 

They hold like that, the bard murmuring soothing words, until the shaking stops. 

With each wound cleared out, the healing becomes easier.

“Let's put the journal away for now. Read me off the ledger.” 

-

Some hours pass. They aren’t overly conscious of the time. 

Jerome loses himself in repetition and the scratch of Jaskier’s quill over parchment. 

Neither man notices footsteps approaching, but this likely has more to do with Oberon’s own light feet. The Crane rests gentle fingers on Jerome’s shoulder, and for once the troubled Griffin seems unbothered by sudden physical contact. 

“You’ve been hard at work for a very long time. Why not come away for a bit, eat something?”

Jaskier shifts in his chair and frowns when he feels the crick in his spine. 

“We’re making progress.” Jerome says. 

“That’s lovely. But I have figs.”

For a moment, Jaskier isn’t sure if they’ll have to get the pry bar to entice Jerome away, but then— 

“Dried?”

“ _Fresh_. And cheese.”

“ _Oh._ ” 

“If only there were a convenient sitting area. Open floor plan. Natural light.” Oberon trails off, staring directly at Jaskier. 

“You know you can just ask, right? That’s a thing people do.”

Two pairs of golden eyes blink innocently at him. 

Jaskier sighs. 

-

Jaskier doesn’t quite _understand_ Oberon, but he does appreciate the Crane’s ability to procure bits of comfort and esoteric knowledge, even if there’s seldom any explanation for either. 

Like the bottle of Erveluce wine he pulls from behind a tapestry in the hall outside the Solar he was only invited to moments before. Jaskier’s mother would _kill_ for that vintage, and Oberon portions the stuff out like grape juice beside thick slabs of crusty bread, weighted down with tangy goat cheese, sweet honey, and figs. 

Jerome begins to eat with gusto, and Oberon sprawls sideways in a high-backed chair like some rogue prince. “Did you discover anything _exciting_?” He asks the Griffin. “Any long lost torrid secrets?”

“Just because Coen collects blue novels doesn’t mean we’re some sort of secret fetish collective.” Jerome grunts around a half-chewed mouthful. “And just because you’re feeding me doesn’t mean I won’t dangle you out the window.”

“What about your books?” Jaskier asks, eyebrows quirking. “How did your books get here, then? Aros Crafanc was on an island, wasn’t it? Did you boat them in?”

Oberon hums, tilting his cup. The wine sloshes like waves in the sea. 

“We had warning before the ocean took the keep.”

“Hm?” Jaskier can’t help but tilt his head. 

He knows that the sea reclaimed most of Aros Crafanc, but not that her Witchers had known it was coming. 

“We’re seafarers.” Oberon explains, ever helpful. “We read the colors of the sky, and the scent of the air. We’d all be lost, otherwise. Mother Alba insisted that we save the books we could before it was too late. We loaded them into the boats and covered them with tarps. I can still hear the rain pattering on the canvas.” For a moment, Oberon closes his eyes and tilts his head _just so_ , as if he’s _there_ still. “We lashed the boats together, which...it’s supposed to help. Until it _really doesn’t_.” A pause. “We thought the keep would hold.”

Jaskier suspects that it isn’t rain he’s hearing. 

He stands quietly, and goes to fetch more wine. 

In the Solar, Jerome says, “You know an avalanche is loud, but you never expect how loud it is. Like all the quiet in the world coming down on your head.”

_Fuck._

-

Jaskier is not particularly surprised when he returns to the Solar and finds both of their chairs empty. 

He can hear them speaking, still, in quieter tones. 

They’ve nested under the table, sides pressed together, eyes wet and sparkling in the dim. 

“Do you need me?” He asks. 

“Always.” Oberon smiles and glances at Jerome before looking back at Jaskier. “You will always be needed.”

Jerome hums, as if this particular cryptic sentiment makes all the sense in the world. “It’s the season of the White Horse soon.”

“The what now?” Jaskier blinks, folding himself down to their level, but not quite convinced on camping out under the furniture. “Tell me you people don’t hunt horses.”

“He’s a _Griffin_.” Oberon laughs. “They have stories for everything. We called it the Homeward Tide.”

“Right. I’m sure this will all make perfect sense once I’ve drunk enough to catch up with you.”

Jerome snorts. “It’s the period of weeks when everyone comes home, when everyone is happy to be together again—”

“Unless they’re Bears.”

“Unless they’re Bears—and at the end, we celebrate the work the Wives have done all season—”

“All year, really.”

“All the time.” Jerome nods as if they’ve come to some terribly important decision in all of this, but quickly grows distracted when a bit of sunlight creeps in and flickers over Oberon’s wheat-gold hair. 

And then he’s tugging out the tie securing the Crane’s loose side braid, sinking his fingers into soft-looking strands with complete focus.

Oberon makes no indication that he’s noticed this, save the slight curve of his lips as he continues their explanation. “The Wolves call it their Returning Season.”

“Efficient.”

“Terribly. But you know how they are by now.”

“Is that why they promised to bring presents?”

“I suppose they’d do that anyway. They love you.” Jerome adds, guiding the strands into the beginning of something terribly complex.

“I don’t mean to doubt you—but are you any good at this?” 

“I am. I made bracelets for my Mothers.”

“Yes! We used shells in our bracelets.” 

“Orvid knew a glass blower, so he brought back beads for us to work with.”

“Wait. When you were children?” Jaskier frowns. 

“That’s what the celebration is about.” Oberon hums, bowing his head like some benevolent ruler imparting sacred knowledge. “Showing the Mothers how much we missed them.”

“Oh.” 

There’s a strange squeaking sensation in his chest that might be his heart melting. 

Jerome is not being nearly so sneaky as he thinks when he presses his face into Oberon’s hair and whispers, “I think I’ll miss you when you go.”

For a moment, Jaskier panics, genuinely wondering how long he has before they start stripping, and he doesn’t realize the thudding noise is not his pulse in his ears. 

“Right.” Vesemir snorts, crouching down beside his Wife. “Time to get you all some water.”

“They were telling me about the Returning Season.” 

Vesemir raises an incredulous eyebrow. “So naturally, you’re all down there.”

“Naturally.” Oberon says, firmly. 

Jerome is comfortable where he is, and they’re not going to question it. 

“You should work with us tomorrow. You’ve got clever hands.” Jerome hums. “And you’re kind.”

Oberon looks as if someone’s upended a bucket of cold spring water over his head—in the best possible way. 

“Jerome, would you like to join me in my room this evening?”

\- 

They manage to herd the tipsy Witchers on in the vague direction of their rest before clearing up the last of their impromptu meal.

Vesemir perches atop the table and catches Jaskier by the wrist, pulling gently until the bard rests quietly in the gap between his knees. Intimacy grows ever easier, here. 

The Witcher drags a finger through the dregs of the honey and lifts it to rosy lips. 

“I thought there was no sex allowed in the Solar.” 

“Then I’ve broken that rule too many times to count. May I?” 

“You may.” Jaskier smirked, pulling his husband in for a honey sweet kiss “But not here. Gerd would have a coronary.” 

“He’ll be—”

Jaskier holds up a finger in a gesture for a moment’s silence. “Observe.” Then, louder, “Hey, Gerd?!”

“ _Yes?”_

“You’re welcome!” And, lower, “I’ll let you fuck me up against the window.”

They head upstairs.

-

For all that Jaskier enjoys the vim and vigor his husbands bring to the bedroom (and the laundry room, and the library, but through general consensus _never the Kitchens—_ ) he does occasionally want a slow, tender bout of lovemaking. 

Or, as Lambert calls it, ‘feelings shit.’

So he sighs in near-perfect contentment when Vesemir gently strips them both down and urges him into the window seat. He draws back, head canted to take in the sight of his boy, already panting softly, chest pressed to the cool glass. 

“Best view in the house.”

“Yours or mine?”

“D’you really need to ask?”

A broad palm drags over his skin from just over the slope of his ass, around to the v of his hip, lingering on his thigh. 

His neck aches as he tries to keep his lover in sight, but he gives up when chapped lips scrape over his shoulder blade, followed by just a hint of teeth. He takes a sharp breath, and those subtle fingers waste no time cupping his cock. 

“Couldn’t be a thing more perfect than this.” Vesemir whispers.

“Oh, really?” Jaskier grins. “Where’s the honey?”

-

Jaskier has never appreciated the sturdiness of Witcher construction as he does _now,_ the lingering sweetness of honey mapped by livid bruises on his skin and the wet, heavy impact of Vesemir’s hips against his ass. 

For a moment, he becomes so lost in the slick sparks of pleasure down his spine that he forgets himself and where they are, closing his eyes as his husband rocks into him from behind. 

He opens his eyes to empty space and gasps, muscles jerking in a reflexive attempt to catch him, and Vesemir grunts, tightening his grip. 

And lifts him _higher,_ moving to lift him completely off of the bench as he bounces the bard on his cock. 

Not long ago, he would have screamed. Panicked, at least a little. 

And there _is_ that sudden dropping sensation in his stomach, but then it’s _warm._

Vesemir wouldn’t let him fall. 

Far. 

He drops back down, spine arching, head falling back, fingers pressing hard against the glass before he moves. One hand tangles itself in Vesemir’s hair while the other reaches down to tease his own reddened prick. 

If there’s one good thing about that damned potion, it’s that he’ll never have to reach for slick again. 

And if there’s a second, it’s the feeling of Vesemir holding him aloft with one powerful arm while the other snatches his wandering hand and brings those slick fingers to his mouth, his forearm pulling Jaskier closer is a sweet side effect.

Vesemir hums around his mouthful, and Jaskier whines. “ _Please.”_

He struggles, legs scrambling for purchase they won’t find as he tries in vain to meet the older man’s hard, steady thrusts.

“I can’t see. Please?”

“You want to look at me, sweetheart?”

“ _Yes.”_

He can _feel_ Vesemir’s laughter, trapped between them. “Ah, but I’m no prize. Not like you, larkspur.”

“But you’re _mine,_ and I want to look at you.” 

Vesemir goes very still, and Jaskier gives it a moment before he starts to _squirm_ again. And then strong arms are folding and twisting him with expert precision, pinning his back up against the damp, misted glass.

His husband presses forward, seeking soft lips and as much skin contact as he can manage.

Jaskier makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, rolling his hips to slide his slick cock against Vesemir’s belly. “Hello, there.”

The Witcher’s answering laugh is a warm gust against his lips, but he goes back to fucking him—slow and teasing, this time. He stays close, nipping at the bard’s lip whenever his eyes begin to flicker shut.

“Look at me. You asked. Stay here, with me.”

So he tangles nimble fingers back into that soft silver hair and presses even closer, rolling his forehead against his husband’s and tapping their noses together. 

“I love you.” He says. “You’re beautiful.”

Another nip from Vesemir.

He picks up the pace, but both of them are _so close_ , it almost _hurts._

 _Come on, come_ **_on._ **

“I’d stay like this forever, if I could.”

The slick sound of impact after impact is a metronome, and Jaskier tightens his legs around strong hips, like he can lock the older man up inside.

He _wants_ to.

He tilts his head up obediently when the Witcher comes in for a kiss. Suckles on his tongue and hums pleasantly.

And then tugs him away by the hair.

“Now _fucking knot me._ ”

His free hand closes lightly around Vesemir’s throat, and he can feel his pulse _jump,_ the cry rattling free as he startles his lover into giving him _exactly_ what he wants.

Jaskier continues working his hips, driving that punishing heat right into the place where he needs it most.

Vesemir presses him back into the window, rocking helplessly against him, whining.

Both of them close their eyes, and come back to themselves, soaked with sweat and cum and slick, sprawled out in the window.

It takes a while for Vesemir to get them both to the bed.

-

Vesemir’s knot hasn’t even gone _down_ when he starts rocking them together again, sprawled between soft thighs and suckling at a pert pink nipple. 

“What are you _doing_?” Jaskier laughs.

And Vesemir grins up at him, still teething. “Givin’ you something to look at.”

There’s really no helping himself after that.

-

Jaskier lets out a deep, satisfied sigh, beaming down at that beloved if somewhat flushed face, and shifts his seat. 

“Not satisfied yet?” Vesemir grins, only for the expression to scrunch awkwardly when the younger man _keeps going,_ grasping awkwardly for the leatherbound volume on the nightstand. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

“Are you rating my performance?”

“10/10 magnificent dick.” Jaskier plants a smacking kiss on Vesemir’s belly—and then opens the damned journal right on top. “Stay still, I need to start writing down plans.”

“For _what_?”

“Returning Season!”

“No one _plans_ Returning Season. They just come home and— _hooof._ ” He wheezes at the impact of book on chest. 

“First—bullshit. _You_ don’t plan. If a few hundred people intend to gather _anywhere_ , someone is organizing it. You’re just not on the planning committee.”

“So what? You’re going to make place cards?”

“For that, you get to spit the moose.”

“For you, I’ll spit _three_ moose. You’ll need them.”

“How do you people _eat_ so much?”

“Well,” Vesemir drawls. “For starters.”

And then he _rolls his hips_ like some kind of obstinate _demon,_ completely straight-faced while Jaskier _yelps._

And then that warm hand settles at the crease of his hip, thumbing gently at his skin. “You’re going to do a great job.”

“At what?”

“Everything.”

So naturally, Jaskier forgives him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerd will, eventually, catch a break. 
> 
> Pinky swear. With the _clean_ pinky, even.
> 
> \- Elpie


	13. An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These stones are ancient.

For all that Jaskier is a beautiful, precious flower, he doesn’t cower away from hard work. Which is good, because Kaer Morhen requires a _great deal_ of hard work. In the absence of so many husbands and brothers, Vesemir _still_ does not let him scale treacherous heights or carry precarious burdens, but he _does_ allow him tasks that put some more muscle on his frame. 

And then he appreciates it very thoroughly. 

The nights grow warm and balmy, and they make fires outside to enjoy the air and the sound of crickets chirring. Jerome and the others join them, most nights. Others, they fall to dreamless sleep after long hours of effort. 

They talk, and it feels as if Vesemir is pouring every scrap of knowledge he can into him. 

“I think I should take notes.” He smiles, offhanded.

And the next night his husband is handing him a soft leather volume, the cover a brilliant robin’s egg blue. There’s a bird embossed into it. 

“It took me a bit longer than it should have, but it’s yours.”

_He made this._

_This is mine._

He misses the others, but the warmth hasn’t gone anywhere. 

-

But the issue remains—

Vesemir hands him Isolde’s journal, his thumb marking a certain page, and Jaskier opens to it and tries not to flinch at the sight of blood smearing the edge. 

“This is why they hate us.” The Witcher says, a crack in his rumbling voice. 

-

_Vesemir’s wrapped my hand and told me to leave be, but a little blood on the pages never hurt anyone. This is important._

_There was a Cat at the tavern._

_We’ve all been warned of them—the Witchers say they’re madmen, that they’re either born bad or become that way. But he was crying. He was sat alone, fist in his mouth, crying. He’d chewed clean through his lip._

_I didn’t see the medallion. Only the eyes. I thought to comfort a brother, but he cut my palm. Vesemir was furious, demanded to know if the blade was poisoned._

_It was not, thank the gods, but Vesemir remained unsatisfied. They would have fought, if the patrons hadn’t chased the man out._

_But now they look on us with the same suspicion._

_We’re to leave earlier than expected._

_I can’t stop thinking about the crying Cat, or the way he flinched from me like some startled animal. As if I could pose some danger to him._

_We worry that our husbands may become unfeeling. I think these Cats may feel too greatly._

_-_

Jaskier takes a deep breath, “The humans or the Cats?”

Vesemir frowns. “The humans. No school concerns themselves with the Cats. They aren’t welcome here.”

“She wrote that you called them madmen. Who would recruit already unstable people to stand the Trials?”

“Their Trials are different. Their _priorities_ are different. This isn’t a subject I meant you to _study,_ lark. I wanted to give you warning.”

Vesemir’s palm cups his cheek, and he leans into it for a moment, breathing in the warm scent of his husband. And then his eyes flutter open. “You’d think you didn’t know me.”

-

Jaskier spends a few lazy evenings scouring the library, finds little to no helpful material, and recruits Jerome and Oberon to aid him in his purpose. 

“What do you want to know about Cats for?” Jerome grunts, crawling along the bottom shelves like a particularly crabby infant.

“Forewarned is forearmed.” Oberon hums, fingers dancing over spines on higher shelves. It may well be his grace that earned him the moniker of ‘Dove.’ 

“He’s got the idea. Besides, have neither of you ever thought it _strange_ that an entire school of Witchers is founded on the principle of _being a sociopath_? That doesn’t seem like a stable goal.”

“They go on berserker rampages.” Jerome says. 

Jaskier blows a film of dust off an old tome. Huffs. Puts it back. “Arguably an effective battle tactic.” 

Oberon shakes his head. “Not with women and children in the way, Żona.”

“But _why_ ? Surely, a mass of madmen with no real direction but murder would end _each other_ first. Look at the _Bears_. They’re perfectly sane, but they’ll take any opportunity to beat each other senseless.”

Oberon and Jerome both shrug. _Fair point._

“Suppose that’s what the Wives are for.” Jerome poses. 

“Jerome. Angel. If you ever get married? _Don’t put that on your wife.”_

“He’s a Griffin.” Oberon grins. “They organize _tourneys._ ”

“Shut up.”

Oberon swoons, as if this fell arrow has struck him in the chest. “Lo, I am slain. Laid low by these cruel witticisms. Żona, go on without me.”

“Oh, no. You’re not getting out of this with horrible acting. Come back with fake blood.” Jaskier teases, then turns back to the shelf, jaw set. “I’m _finding this out._ ”

They resume their search. 

-

Finally, after no shortage of hours’ labor, they find a comparative analysis of _Witcherf Moft Curiouf_ —clearly, old as _hell_ —buried in the depths of the collections between _Brother Atlbert’s Explanatory of the Witchering Process_ and _Curatives for the Questionable Itch._ ****

It’s...not great. 

Jaskier sits on the floor with his brothers, gloved hand leafing through the pages and sharing what knowledge he finds. 

Initially, the Cats were as any other school, though their specialties lay in quick footwork and acrobatics. There’s even a note or two indicating that some came from circus stock, and that their keep—when there had _been_ a keep—boasted a series of nets, high wires, and various things to climb and leap from. 

(Jaskier shudders to imagine Lambert on a trapeze.) 

It is noted that, after the Trials, guildsmen would exhibit some emotional instability. A certain predisposition to become lost to strong emotion for brief intervals.

_To cry, perhaps._

To rage. 

To laugh uncontrollably. 

Mild insanity seemed an inconvenience. 

Perhaps, the author posits, some enterprising mage sought to tweak the formulae. Or perhaps what happened next genuinely _was_ an accident. 

A later group of Cats was rendered completely void of emotion, which wasn’t _precisely_ ideal in a group of young men expected to protect the innocent from being murdered. 

To truly save others, one needed to feel _empathy_ —to _care._ One needed emotion to _survive,_ or simply became a machine with golden eyes.

A fair number seem to have died in various unpleasant ways, not all at the hands of the creatures they fought. 

Others lived to rear a new generation of fighting men, devoid of any advantage love and care might bring them. 

Oberon looks a bit green. 

Neither of the Witchers present now could imagine losing their fathers to a gaping void where their very personality used to be. 

In another attempt at course correction, the mages of Stygga Castle swung hard and _missed completely_ by producing a group of warriors unable to regulate sudden, overwhelming emotional onslaughts. 

They wanted, and they wanted _ravenously._

They hated _venomously._

Despaired without end. 

And eventually, _both groups_ became fathers. 

And then they went out into the world with a constant screaming in their heads, unable to stop themselves. 

And they bit. 

“No wonder it’s the Dead Man’s Caravan.” Oberon says, very quietly. 

“...What?”

“Dyn Marv.” Jerome adds. “‘Dead people.’ It’s the name of their carvan. The castle was destroyed.”

“Son of a _bitch_.”

-

Jaskier places his find in front of Vesemir, eyes damp in the firelight. 

“This was done to them.” He says. “They marched _right over a cliff._ ”

He waits while his husband reads through the pages, sucking his teeth and closing his eyes at the worst of it. “They stopped hunting monsters.” Vesemir rasps. “Started taking human contracts. We don’t _do_ that.”

“You’re supposed to protect people.”

The Witcher nods. 

“But no one protected _them_. They did exactly what they were supposed to do…until they couldn’t anymore.”

“We have to be ready to be hurt.”

“Not like this. Not...Vesemir, they weren’t loved the way your children were loved. They didn’t have _you._ Children need some sense of stability to learn how _anything_ works. _Everyone_ starts off without empathy. _Everyone.”_

He takes a deep breath. 

“They never had any. They were expected to sail into a storm with no ship beneath them, and there’s no other side. There’s no coming out. They weren’t _born_ madmen. They were _raised_ to it.”

“What would you have _me_ do, Jaskier?”

“I don’t…” He whispers. “I don’t know.”

-

Vesemir lays with him under sheets that feel too cold, his chest a pillow, fingers pressing at the tense muscles of the bard’s back. 

He asks, “Is it so much better with love?”

And Jaskier shifts against him. “Is what better?”

“We subject them to the same. Different chemicals, but in the end—the same. Expect the same from them. Send them off to die the same. Just as we did. Just as our fathers did.”

“I don’t expect you to stop.”

“You did once. You’d have argued for it.”

Jaskier rests his pointy chin on his husband’s chest. Long fingers trace over old scars. “I know now why it’s important. I’ve _always_ known that _you_ are important, long before I came here. You’re _heroes._ ”

Vesemir snorts. 

“Don’t laugh. I’m not being dramatic. You spend your lives killing monsters only to be treated like them. But you’re the reason people can still _laugh_ in this horrible world. You’re the reason children stay safe, trade flourishes, and kings reign. Without you, we’d all be food.”

Vesemir’s palm presses against his back. 

“I don’t want a single child more to leave these halls thinking that what you do is a _duty._ Like it’s all just practical.”

“What is it, then?”

“You’re saving the world. You should all know it and be proud of it. Not suffer through the pain just to wade through another day at a thankless job.”

“Are you going to change public opinion, then?” Vesemir’s laugh is low, shaking in his chest, but Jaskier’s eyes are dead set on his own. 

He can see them clearly in the dark. 

“What the fuck do you think I did for a living, before I came here?”

-

Each of them has a great deal to think about over the next few days.

For all the chill winds continue to blow in the high mountains, there’s a feeling of warmth and confidence. 

The residents of Kaer Morhen keep one another safe, as they have for generations. 

Love lives here. 

And they’ll need it, Vesemir thinks as he stands atop the outer wall, staring at the figures trudging up the mountainside. 

That white hair is unmistakable, stark against the earth and trees without any snow to cloak them. 

Geralt has never returned so early. 

And certainly not with a _child._

Beside him, Jaskier lowers the old spyglass he’s borrowed from Oberon. 

“He’s hurt.”

They just don’t yet know how badly.

**Author's Note:**

> For the curious, the credit roll is as follows: 
> 
> Elpie: Lead Writer, Tone Police. [on tumblr](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/)  
> Weary: Writer, Researcher, Monitors When it is Acceptable to Make a Moose Joke.  
> Ducky: World-Building Detail Gremlin, Wrangled the Lore into Being. Focused on Editing.  
> Flit: Editor. Professional Adult.  
> Fruit: Editor. Keeps MF Sending Me "Flat F#ck Friday" Every Week.  
> Mal: Editor. Knows How the Dialog Tag Comma Thingy Works While Elpie Definitely Does Not.  
> Rellah: Editor. Literally Signed Up for This.


End file.
